Summer of David
by Bad Girl McGuire
Summary: “Have you ever wondered if you might be gay?” Greg asked. This summer was not a good time for David Gordon to be dealing with that question. On the other hand, maybe it was the PERFECT time. T for now, but may turn M later. Please read Author's Note!
1. Child Rearing

_I read Lizzie McGuire Fan Fiction for a long time before I started writing it. At some point, I read a story called Kinky Love, about wild gay sex between Ethan and Gordo. You can go back and find it and read it if you want, but really…THIS STORY IS NOTHING LIKE THAT ONE! It was an inspiration, only because I wanted to see if I could do better. I wanted to see if there was a more mature, subdued way to deal with the reality of a teenage boy discovering his sexuality and asking the inevitable questions that will help mold him into the man he will eventually become._

_So yes, this story will have some gay sex in it, but that is not the focal point. The focal point is David Gordon, the summer before he enters high school, on a journey of self-doubt and self-discovery. In some strange way, this may actually end up as a very sweet LG._

_By the way, I'm female, and I'm not gay, so maybe I'm way out of my league on this one. But I consider this a challenge, so I can't resist tackling the topic. Let me know how you think I'm doing. Signed and anonymous reviews gladly accepted. Be truthful, but be nice! I value all constructive feedback!_

_Please keep an open mind and enjoy the story!_

_(PS- I was going to wait a little to begin posting this story, but I'm so tired of seeing Spoiled Too on the top of the M list, I thought I'd shake it up a bit by posting a new story. It would also be nice if somebody else would post something new to the M section. Anybody got any ideas?? Love to see them!)_

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CHAPTER 1

"Oh, by the way, David, this coming Monday you'll be going to baseball camp," Howard Gordon announced as he flipped back the page of his newspaper, then immediately returned to his reading.

Gordo stared incredulously at his father. "What?" he finally managed to spit out, his mouth hanging open.

Mr. Gordon looked up over the top of his reading glasses and explained, "It's an excellent camp, in Sunnybrooke, about fifty miles from here. I'm sure you've heard of it, everybody wants to get their kids into it. The program runs for three weeks, and by the time you're done, you'll be hitting and pitching with the best of them."

Gordo's mouth continued to hang open, until he was able to form the words, "But…but…Dad! I don't even _like_ baseball."

Mr. Gordon scowled at his son. "Of course you do!"

"No I don't!" Gordo insisted, his head growing hot under his mop of shaggy brown curls. "In fact, I HATE baseball!"

This looked to be shaping up like a major argument with his father.

Again.

"You do not hate baseball." Mr. Gordon insisted. "You love baseball. Don't you remember Tee Ball?"

"Dad! I was five! Maybe six. That was….like, eight years ago. Everything is….so much different now."

"What's different?" Mr. Gordon insisted. "Boys and baseball. It's an American institution. It will do you good to get some sports into you. We all know you're smart, David. How could any child of mine be otherwise? But really now…time to be a little more…shall we say… _well rounded_?"

Having said this, Mr. Gordon returned to his newspaper, as if the subject was closed. But to Gordo, the subject was not closed. He really did not like baseball, he pretty much despised it. In fact, he despised all sports. Not that he had anything against sports, but sports seemed to have something against him. He was short, and small, and…and well, okay, he was kind of a wimp. He ran like a girl. He threw like a girl. Hell, his two best friends were girls! He didn't know anything about being a sporty type of guy. And he certainly didn't want to undertake anything at which he was so certain he was bound to fail.

But one thing he always failed at was arguing with his father. When Howard Gordon made up his mind, the matter was laid to rest. Still, Gordo was not going to take this one lying down. He pulled himself up in his chair, took a deep breath, and announced, "I don't want to go, Dad. I'm not going to go."

This time, Mr. Gordon's scowl was even more intense than before. "Whyever not?" he asked impatiently.

"I…well ….you see… the thing is…. You know, I told Lizzie—"

"Your little friend has been grounded for the rest of the summer, after her escapades in Italy, and Miranda is not due back from Mexico for another two weeks. There is nothing for you here except moping around the house watching cartoons and old movies. David. Please. Let's be reasonable. Fresh air and sunshine—"

"Sweating my ass off while I get burned to a crisp!" Gordo countered.

"David!" Mr. Gordon snapped.

As luck would have it, this was the exact moment Roberta Gordon walked into the room. She had been out all day seeing patients in her thriving Psychiatric practice. Now, as she came home, kicking off her shoes and moaning, full of the troubles of a dozen dysfunctional souls, the last thing she needed was to hear her husband and her son arguing.

"Howard!" she ranted. "Why are you yelling at the boy like that?"

"Your son has a gutter mouth," Mr. Gordon explained. "Can you believe he's using foul language to his father? Where the hell did he learn something like that?"

"Mom!" Gordo jumped in. "Dad's forcing me to go to a baseball camp."

"Don't you want to go, dear? It will be so much fun!" Mrs. Gordon said brightly, with a big fake smile for her only son.

"No, it won't!" Gordo insisted. "It will be a royal pain in the ass—"

"There he goes again!" Mr. Gordon bellowed, finally putting down his newspaper.

"Howard! Really! Let the boy express himself!"

"Express himself, Roberta? That doesn't give him the right to be rude to—"

"Listen," Gordo interrupted strongly, standing up in the middle of the room and waving his arms at both parents. "Before you two get going at it again, let me just say one thing. I do not want to go to this baseball camp. Doesn't what I want have any influence whatsoever?"

"Of course it does!" Mrs. Gordon said sweetly, at the same moment that her husband said, "No, none whatsoever!"

"Howard!"

"Roberta!"

Gordo sighed. They were at it again. It had been like this a lot lately, ever since the inquiry involving Dad's patient, Tami Taylor.

"I told you he wasn't going to like the idea—" Mrs. Gordon began.

"What the hell difference does that make?" Mr. Gordon shouted. "He's a child, Roberta. He doesn't get to make his own decisions. Not quite yet. It's our responsibility to mold him, to use every opportunity we can to turn him into a man, into a _real_ man. You know, I had to pull quite a few strings to get him into this program at such a late date—"

"Strings!" Mrs. Gordon returned with equal vehemence. "One of your patients--one of the few patients you still have, that stuck with you, God knows why!--happens to have a brother who is some big-deal baseball coach at the state university. What did you have to do? Offer free sessions in exchange for getting your boy into a program that will finally make a 'man' out of him?"

"Are you attacking my competence as a—"

"Mom! Dad!" Gordo interrupted. "Let's stay on topic, shall we? This is about _me,_ remember?"

"Yes, of course we remember, sweetheart, " Mrs. Gordon said, dropping her voice. "We are always thinking of you, David. We only want the very best for you. And if you don't think that—"

"Roberta, this issue is not open for debate!" Mr. Gordon exclaimed. "David will be attending the camp. I'm driving him up there on Monday. He's going up a boy, he's coming back a man."

Mrs. Gordon scoffed, "Will you listen to yourself, Howard? When did you become such a Neanderthal? What makes you think baseball is going to make a 'man' out of our little boy?"

Gordo cringed. His mother did enjoy calling him a little boy, almost as much as his father insisted on pushing him to become a man.

"Well, it certainly did me a world of good when I was his age—"

"You were never his age, Howard!" Mrs. Gordon insisted. "David is a totally different child than you ever were."

"I'll say he is!" Mr. Gordon agreed. "When I was his age, I was playing sports, hanging out with other guys, and if I ever spent as much time with a girl as he spends with that Lizzie McGuire, it was only because I was too busy getting to first base, or maybe even second base—"

"Oh, fabulous!" Mrs. Gordon sneered. "A baseball analogy. How witty, how rich, considering the circumstances."

Gordo threw up his hands. Okay! He'd heard enough.

"I'm only saying it wouldn't hurt him to—"

"Hello! Dad!" Gordo exclaimed. "_I'm right here!_"

"I know you are, son. And you need to hear this."

"No, I don't," Gordo said firmly. "I really don't need to hear again how by my age you were boinking everything in a mini skirt and go-go boots—"

Mrs. Gordon gasped. "Howard! You told him about that? About your sordid—"

"Not sordid," Mr. Gordon insisted. "Healthy. Which is a lot more than I can say for his relationship with those two—"

"Never criticize your child's friends!" Mrs. Gordon recited. "In all your years as a psychiatrist, Howard, have you learned nothing about child-rearing?"

"That's it!" Gordo announced, storming out of the room. Whenever he heard the word "child-rearing" he knew it was time to escape.

"David!" Mrs. Gordon called after him desperately, even as her husband demanded, "Young man, just where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Out!" Gordo called back. "Let me know when you've reached a consensus on how to _rear_ me." Geez! For two well- educated professionals, his parents sure knew how to butt heads. Especially when it came to "child rearing."

Gordo knew if he stayed to hear the end of this argument, he would surely end up even more messed up than he already was. And so he let the screen door slam behind him and headed down the block in the sweltering summer heat, his long curls bouncing on his head as he followed his feet to the only place he could always depend on them to lead him.

Lizzie McGuire's house.


	2. Grounded

_**So here's a little more of this story, tho it's really just some background. I promise it will get going soon.**_

m

m

Lizzie was grounded, and had been ever since returning from the class trip to Rome. Only three weeks had passed, but to Gordo it felt much longer. As he made his escape from his parents' heated debate on "child-rearing," and his feet pounded the pavement, making their way towards Lizzie's house, he had to search way back in his memory to find a time when this magnificent girl had not been part of his daily routine.

Well, he remembered, once, in third grade, she had replaced the cookies in Matt's kindergarten lunchbox with doggie biscuits, after Miranda assured her they were not dangerous, yet to be seen eating them would be the ultimate embarrassment. It was a good joke, but Gordo always thought the week-long grounding her parents inflicted as punishment had been excessive.

As he rounded the corner towards Lizzie's house, Gordo smiled. Yeah, it had been a good joke, and well worth it, despite the grounding, and despite the fact that after that Matt stepped up his efforts to harass his sister. Somehow Matt always seemed to get away with his pranks, but the McGuire parents seemed much more strict when it came to Lizzie. It wasn't fair. But then, since when were parents fair?

After that, Lizzie remained crime-free. Well, at least until the elementary school graduation Dance. Kate Sanders spent an entire week making sure that everyone in school knew that Danny Kessler was taking her to the Dance, but Lizzie and Miranda would have to _share_ Gordo as their date, and Gordo wasn't even a good enough date for one girl, according to Kate, never mind two.

In retaliation for Kate's insult, Lizzie came to the Dance with three tiny fake spiders left over from Halloween and managed, without anyone seeing, to attach them to the back of Kate's pretty pink dress with a dab of super glue. When Danny Kessler finally noticed the spiders and tried to shoo them off but couldn't, Kate got hysterical and ran screaming from the room, practically tearing off her dress in front of everyone.

Lizzie was seen by Claire flinging the tube of superglue from her pocket, and thus her parents were sent for. So she missed the Dance, and was grounded for two weeks this time, but during that entire time, Gordo had the image of Kate flailing and freaking out to get him throughout the exile of his imaginative best friend. Even better, he felt warmed by the fact that Lizzie had done it all in defense of his honor. Later, both he and Lizzie would eternally agree that this, too, had all been well worth it.

This time, however, was different. As Gordo trudged up the street, attempting to block out the memory of his parents' recent argument, he tried to focus on Lizzie, but this led his thoughts back to Rome. He found thoughts of Rome to be even more disturbing than the way his mother continued to refer to him as "our little boy," even more disturbing than his father's insistence upon him going to some blasted baseball camp he had absolutely no interest in attending. He hoped thinking of Lizzie would make him feel better, but at the moment, these thoughts of Rome only caused him to spiral deeper into his depression.

Rome. What had happened there? Already it felt so much like a dream. No, not a dream, more like a nightmare. Lizzie McGuire, the girl who had been his friend forever, the girl who he now wanted as "more than a friend," who was, in fact, occupying all his thoughts and driving him crazy when he woke up alone in his bed in the middle of the night….Lizzie, Lizzie…

In Rome, she abandoned him. She ran off with some Italian singing star, sneaking out at all hours, doing things worthy of the most heinous bouts of parental grounding. When Gordo tried to warn her to be careful, she simply blew him off. And then, dope that he was, he took the fall for her, almost getting himself shipped back home in the middle of the trip.

What was he thinking? He wasn't thinking.

In the end, is was he, Gordo, who saved the day, tracking down the famous Isabella in the airport and convincing her to return with him to the Awards Ceremony to put the conniving Paulo in his place. The evening ended splendidly for Lizzie, with a fairy tale performance he still could not believe had actually happened. She looked so hot that night. His mind was reeling. Everything was reeling.

And then afterwards, at the party, she brought him up to the rooftop, and thanked him…and kissed him. And what had he done in return?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

How big of a jackass could he possibly be?

Gordo sighed heartily, and found that he was now in front of Lizzie's house. He looked up at her window. It was nearly dark, and he could tell that her bedroom light was on. He could hear Good Charlotte floating out of her open window and down to his ears. He paced back and forth for a while, like some stupid animal, not knowing what to do.

Why was is that he never knew what to do when it came to Lizzie? He wanted that girl so much, and yet, when the moment arrived, that moment on the rooftop in Italy, when it would have been totally appropriate to take her in his arms and kiss her back, or, at the very least, to tell her how he felt, he did neither. He did nothing. He just stood there like a dope and said, "Thank you."

"Thank you"?

Now, he walked up to the nearest tree and banged his head against it, proclaiming a loud "Aaargh!" What had he been thinking? That's right. Not thinking. Not thinking with one head….and certainly not thinking with the other head, either (as his father often liked to joke.) What good was it to have both these heads, if neither one of them worked properly?

He slid down against the tree, cursing his life. Was he doomed to be the smartest kid in the class who knew absolutely nothing about anything that really mattered? Because girls mattered. At least Lizzie mattered to him. A lot. But he had no idea how he was ever going to let her know.


	3. Like an Angel

Gordo sighed heartily, and found that he was now in front of Lizzie's house. He sat under the tree outside Lizzie McGuire's window, miserably wondering how he was ever going to let her know that she totally rocked his world.

Well, there was that old tried and true standard: "Come Right Out and Say It." Yeah, sure. Easier said than done. Well, maybe he could write her a note instead. He could write a note, and fly it up through her open window above…then run like hell before she actually read it.

Now, why had he thought that? Why should he run? Was it because he feared rejection? Of course, what else? What if Lizzie should reject him? It would be more misery than he could bear. He would rather be depressed not knowing than to be miserable knowing for certain.

He was sick.

But she had kissed him, right? There he went again, analyzing that kiss. But no matter how many times he went through it, he always came back with the same conclusion_: inconclusive_. Lizzie was on a high when she kissed him, recovering from her moment in the spotlight. She might have kissed anyone. It didn't mean anything.

Or did it?

He had to know. But how to know? It was impossible to see her now. She was grounded for the remainder of the summer. No Lizzie until the first day of school! He was going to die. He was not going to make it, of that much he was certain. He had to see her, he had to at least hear her voice, one more time before he got shipped off to that awful baseball camp on Monday.

He looked up from his place on the ground, studying the tree outside her window. Sure, it could be done. He's already gone through this in his mind a hundred times. If he could propel himself up to the lowest branch, and then produce enough strength in the muscles of his arms to pull the weight of his body up to the next branch, it would be smooth sailing all the way to the rooftop eaves, and then directly into Lizzie's window.

She would be surprised to see him, no doubt. "Oh….Gordo!" she would gasp. And then…maybe… she would be so happy to see him, she would come to him again, like she had that night on the rooftop in Italy…and kiss him. And this time, maybe this time, he could get it right, and kiss her back.

Gordo closed his eyes, leaned against the tree and gulped, thinking how very sweet that would be, how very soft her lips would feel against his. He wanted to touch her golden hair, and kiss her soft lips, over and over again.

She would let him…wouldn't she? She missed him too….didn't she?

He should do it. Yes. He should just do it already. He should stop thinking about it and just do it. He would climb up through Lizzie's window and surprise her. And she would indeed be surprised to see him in her room, to see him making the first move, being proactive about their relationship, instead of his usual passive self. She would have to respect that. What could be better? In one fell swoop, he could earn her respect as well as her love.

_Yes, yes_! he thought, standing up. _I'm going to do it. I'm going to do it._

We have nothing to fear but fear itself…. Who had said that? Some president, right? Well, screw fear. He was going to do it. Heart beating wildly, he approached the tree outside Lizzie's window.

Okay. First things first. He had to make it to the bottom branch….but he was just a little too short to reach it.

Gordo smirked. What else was new? Too short. But he wasn't going to let that stop him anymore. He took a deep breath, crouched low, and threw the full weight of his body up towards the tree, arms outstretched. He reached, he grabbed, and for a moment he had the branch in his hand, but then…but then….

"Yaaaaah!" he screamed as he slipped, the rough bark tearing the flesh of his palms. He fell back on the grass, holding his hands, and holding back tears of pain and frustration.

Gordo was so aggravated that he didn't realize until a moment later that Lizzie's music had stopped and the world stood silent. Silent, that is, until he heard her voice, gently calling like an angel from above, "Who's there? Is somebody there?"

Gordo looked up quickly and saw Lizzie at her window, the light from beyond haloing her…._exactly like an angel_, he thought.

"Who's there?" she asked again, more strongly.

Gordo bit his lip against the pain in his hands. "Lizzie, it's me," he said, managing to stand up.

"Gordo!" she exclaimed. Then, "Oh yes…I see you! Well…what are you doing here?"

"I….I….I came to see you," he said simply.

Lizzie sighed. "You know you can't see me. You know I'm grounded."

"I know," Gordo said. "I just wanted to see you. Just for a moment."

"Well….why?" Lizzie asked.

Gordo bit his lip again, but this time not against the pain. Just say it, you ass! Just say it! He even had the words framed in his mind: _I came to tell you that I love you, Lizzie, and I want to go out with you. I want us to be boyfriend and girlfriend, and I want to do everything I possibly can to make you happy. I don't want to just be your friend anymore. I want to be your everything…because for so very long now, you've been my everything._

That was good. That would work, right? He was pretty damn eloquent, when he put his heart into it. Yes, he should say this. What girl could resist a declaration of love such as this?

_So.say it! Just say it, you ass!_

What he said was, "I wanted to tell you….that….that I'm being shipped off to baseball camp."

"When are you leaving?" Lizzie asked.

"Monday."

"And when are you getting back?"

"Three weeks. It will still be summer break, I guess. I'll….I'll…." he struggled, then managed to spit out, "I'll miss you."

"Well, it doesn't really matter, does it?" Lizzie said. "I'll still be grounded when you get back. So one way or the other you would still miss me. So go have a good time at camp, Gordo. I guess I'll see you when you get back. Or at least when school starts. I can't believe how much I can't wait for school to start! This being grounded is _bullshit_! You know?"

Gordo sighed. So much for Lizzie weeping and wailing "Oh please, Gordo, please don't go!"

"I'm…uh….I don't really want to go," he tried.

"Well, I don't really want to be grounded either," Lizzie said matter-of-factly. "But whatcha gonna do, right?"

"Yeah…well…I just wanted you to know..." he said dejectedly, "...I just wanted you to…to…you know…"

"To what?" Lizzie said sharply. "Speak up, Gordo! I can't hear you."

Gordo sighed again. "Never mind," he said. "I gotta go. I guess… I'll see you later…or something."

"Okay!" Lizzie agreed. "Have a good time at camp, Gordo! See you later. See you at school."

Gordo took one last look at her, waving at him from her bedroom window, illuminated like an angel…and just as distant and unattainable, apparently.

He turned and walked back down the street, wanting nothing more than to get home, wash his hands, and pour some stingingly painful hydrogen peroxide over his wounds.


	4. The Not So Happy Camper

SOD 3 FIRST DAY AT CAMP

Gordo and his father did not speak at all on the 50 mile ride to Sunnybrooke. By this time, whatever could be said had already been said. Several times. Mr. Gordon insisted on the classical radio station and Gordo did not even object. He sat with his head against the window, sighing now and then. Despite the insistent drone of Sunday Afternoon at the Opera, the silence was deafening.

At last they arrived, and Gordo noted, with a slight degree of comfort, that this place looked exactly like every camp his parents had ever shipped him off to. They always told him that it was for his own "personal enrichment," but as a pre-teen with a budding hormones, Gordo began to wonder if the real reason his parents disposed of him for several weeks each summer was so that they could have limitless sex, with no fear of "the boy" walking in or hearing.

Of course the idea of his parents having sex was so revolting, Gordo tried very, very hard not to think about it, and then, when he was twelve, he put his foot down and said he wasn't going to camp anymore because he had too many plans with Lizzie and Miranda. Now, at fourteen, he wondered if the real reason he had refused to go to camp was because, subconsciously, he wanted to be at home to stop his parents from having sex.

At the time, saying he had plans with Lizzie and Miranda had somehow been enough to satisfy his parents. Now, he wondered if it had been so easy because his father was secretly hoping that a summer in the company of two girls might somehow lead to sexual activity, which would thus "make a man" out of him.

Back in those days, and it was only a few years ago, Dad had a lot more to say about decisions made around the house. Now, the balance of power had shifted and Mom was very much in control. Dad losing so many patients after the Tami Taylor incident was the start of all the trouble. Financially, he was no longer on an equal footing with Mom, and Gordo knew his father's self-confidence must be shaken by his professional failure. Yet somehow, Gordo could not shake the idea, subconscious as it was, that his being home over the summer, preventing his parents from having sex, had somehow led to his father's emasculation, and all the bickering that followed, as his father tried so desperately to reassert himself.

So, in the end, Gordo wondered, what if this was all _his_ fault?

Well, then, maybe going off to camp again would somehow put everything right again. Let his parents have sex! He didn't care. And besides that, maybe the camp experience wouldn't be as bad as he originally thought.

"Here we are," Howard Gordo said suddenly, as he turned up the dirt road under the sign proclaiming "Sunnybrooke Campgrounds." He looked across at his son and tried a smile.

Gordo tried to smile back, but knew it came out looking more like a smirk. He leaned against the window and sighed again.

Here was the front office, a building designed to look like a log cabin, but it really wasn't. Here were the bunks, buildings that really were log cabins, with no air conditioning and plenty of cracks to admit bugs and other creatures. The mess hall came next, with a bunch of boys standing all around. Gordo sat up straight, taking a good look at his fellow campers.

"Dad!" he said suddenly. "What age is this camp for?"

"Well….it's….you see…"

"There's a bunch of little kids here!"

"They're not little kids," Mr. Gordon insisted. "They're only a few years younger than you, David. Some are twelve..."

"And some are…what? Eight?"

"Well, nine. Yes, some are nine, but it goes to twelve--"  
"Dad!" Gordo cried in desperation. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm fourteen. I'm almost fifteen! Next month, remember? Why the hell--?"

"Look, son. You're not exactly tall for your age. You'll fit right it. And you don't have a lot of recent experience with baseball, so I thought it might give you an edge if you were the oldest of the group--"

"An edge!" Gordo shrieked. "It's just going to make me look like a total ass, playing ball with all these little kids! And not only that, even though I'll be older than all of them and bigger than most of them, I'm still going to suck, on account of having hardly _any_ experience with baseball. So now I'm going to suck that much worse, in comparison."

Gordo sighed heavily in frustration, then went on, "Dammit, Dad! What were you thinking? I mean, what must you think of me? On the one hand, you want me to become a 'man,' whatever the hell that is! But on the other you send me to play ball with a bunch of little boys. I don't get it. Are you _trying_ to do to me what was done to you?"

"What was--what?" Howard Gordon demanded. "What the hell are you talking about, David?"

"I--I--" Gordo stammered, defeated, then banged his head against the car window. "Never mind. Just never mind."

By this time, Mr. Gordon had pulled into a parking spot. He turned to his son and began, "Listen, young man--" but was abruptly interrupted by a knocking on the driver's side window. He turned and lowered the window. A beefy blonde-haired man leaned down to look into the car, saying, "Gordon?"

"Pryor?" Howard Gordon returned.

The beefy man laughed heartily. "Sid Pryor, at your service. How the hell are you, Gordon? Ronny told me you'd be coming in this afternoon. Good to meet you," he added, thrusting his hand through the window. "That your boy?"

"Uh…yes, yes," Howard Gordon said, awkwardly reaching around to shake Pryor's hand. "Why don't we….let me get out of the car, I'll introduce you."

"Oh, sure! Where are my manners?" Pryor said, then laughed again, as if it were the greatest joke in the world.

Once they were out of the car, Gordo knew the argument that had almost begun with his father would not be completed. They were in "social mode" now, putting on the best possible show for the outside world. In public, the Gordons were the most proper and respectable of families.

Gordo shook Mr. Pryor's hand, politely saying how pleased he was to meet him, and how much he looked forward to improving his game over the next three weeks. Then he was able to zone out a bit as his father and Mr. Pryor discussed their mutual acquaintance, Pryor's brother Ronny, and their hopes for both college and professional ball, including who they thought would make it to the World Series. It was manly talk, and did not interest Gordo at all. He kept looking around at the other boys and their families, as they continued to arrive, and noted with both relief and despair that some of these twelve year olds were just as big as he was.

Or more precisely, he realized with a sudden, sour sigh, _he_ was no bigger than these twelve year olds.

_Great! _he thought. _So I guess I won't actually _look_ like a horse's ass. And I'll be the only one who knows that I actually _am_ one._

This was bad. This was very bad. And then, suddenly, it got even worse. Because in another moment, as Gordo stood there quietly beside his father, feeling smaller and younger and more inadequate than he could ever remember feeling, he heard the screen door of the fake log cabin bang open, and turned to see a young man jump down the steps in a single bound, easily spring back up on his sneakers, and begin to walk across the dusty road in their direction. This young man was tall, and muscular, and blonde. His casual saunter spoke of a self-confidence Gordo had never even dreamed of possessing. And as this individual got closer, Gordo could see that he was smiling that kind of crooked smile that girls always found so irresistible and charming, and that his eyes were the brightest blue. He was big and strong and handsome and self-assured.

In short, he was everything that Gordo was not.

Then Pryor turned towards this young man and said, "Greg, get your ass over here! I want you to meet my good buddy, Howard Gordon, and his son--uh, what was your name, son?"

"Gordo," Gordo squeaked out without thinking.

Pryor gave Gordo a quick, odd look, then turned back to Howard and said, "So anyway, Howie, this here is my son. Greg."


	5. An Ordinary Guy

AN ORDINARY GUY

Greg reached out a large, firm hand to Mr. Gordon, and they shook heartily. The younger man used his deepest, most sincere voice to proclaim "Glad to meet you, Mr. Gordon."

Then he turned his attention to Gordo, once again reaching out his hand, but this time his voice was much lighter, more personal and friendly, as he said, "And you too, buddy. What'd'ya say your name was?"

Gordo felt stupefied. He knew this was not a hard question, but for the first time in his life, he felt truly embarrassed to use his nickname. He was also rendered speechless by the strength of Greg's handshake.

"Gordon!" Greg's father boomed. "The boy said his name is Gordon!"

"Well, we know _that_," Greg allowed, giving Gordo a conspiratorial grin that was the equivalent of an eye-rolling and exasperated _Parents! Geez!_. Then he added, directly to Gordo, "I mean, what's your first name, kid?"

"Oh!" Gordo exclaimed, taking his hand back and wiggling the feeling back into his fingers. "Uh…David. My name is David." It felt strange to say that.

Gordo wasn't quite sure, but he thought he saw Greg give him a quick wink along with his big-handed shoulder-punch. "Well, Dave, it's great to have you on board."

Gordo had never liked the name Dave. He didn't want to be known as "Dave" while he was here. But then he didn't want to be known as "Gordo" either. Suddenly, for reasons he couldn't quite understand, his lifelong nickname sounded utterly stupid to him.

He felt his mouth open to protest, but before he could even figure out what he might say, Pryor was explaining, "Greg's just got accepted to UCLA, baseball scholarship. He's one hell of a pitcher! But then, any kid of mine would have to be, right Greggy?"

Pryor laughed again as if what he'd said was the biggest joke in the world, and Greg agreed, "Right, Dad! You bet!"

The two dads didn't catch it, but this time Gordo actually did see Sid Pryor's son roll his eyes. Then he turned his head slightly, looked down at Gordo, and yes! This time Gordo was certain. There was a wink.

"So Greg's been helping me out at the camp here for a few years now," Pryor went on. "Sort of an assistant coach. He's great with the kids! Just great! Got a lot to offer them, you know?"

"I'm still just a big kid myself in lots of ways," Greg added with a grin.

"I think the boys really relate to him, you know?" Pryor said.

"Well then," Howard Gordon said, "between the two of you, I feel I'm leaving my son in very capable hands."

"No worries," Greg said, smiling down at Gordo. "We'll take good care of Davey here."

"I— I—" Gordo heard himself start to object. Davey? Oh, no! Dave was bad enough! He was not going to put up with Davey!

But before he could get any further, Greg was grabbing the duffel bag from his shoulder and saying, "C'mon, kid! I'll show you your bunk. Where does he go, Dad?"

Sid Pryor consulted his clipboard, then announced, "Number Five. With Patterson, and the Geller twins."

Greg sort of chuckled. "Huh. Patterson. Well then, let's go."

Gordo started to walk away, following Greg, but he had only gone a few steps when he felt compelled to turn around. He looked back towards the car and noticed that his dad looked so small next to the beefiness of Sid Pryor.

The same way he knew that he himself looked pathetically unimpressive next to the flawless splendor that was Pryor's son, Greg. Sure, Greg had a few years on him, but Gordo wasn't kidding himself. There was no way that by the time he was eighteen--or twenty or even thirty--he was going to look anything like Greg. Maybe there was something to be said for heredity after all.

And then it hit him all at once: he was doomed to end up like his dad.

With that realization, he felt more miserable than he had all day. And he felt miserable for feeling miserable. Despite his shortcomings, he dad did try to do the right thing for him. Dad was a good dad. But Gordo suddenly felt quite sure that he, himself, was not a good son.

He wanted to run back and give his dad a big hug. Maybe even apologize for what a pain in the ass he'd been lately. But with Pryor and Son looking on, he knew there was no way he would stoop to such an undignified show of emotion. So he only said, "Well…Dad…I guess I'll see you… in a few weeks."

Howard Gordon nodded. "Three weeks," he said. "You be good, David."

Gordo nodded.

"Don't give anybody any trouble!"

"I won't."

"And learn a lot," Dad added. "Grow!"

Gordo nodded again, sinking deeper into despair. He knew his dad meant he should grow personally, emotionally, become a more "well rounded" human being, but as he felt Greg take a few steps backwards to come to stand behind him, tower above him, he fervently wished that these next few weeks might somehow, magically, give him the power to grow physically.

"No worries, Mr. Gordon!" Greg called, repeating his phrase from earlier. "See you in three weeks!" Then he looked down at Gordo and actually said, "Parents, huh? Geez!"

Gordo sort of laughed. "Yeah. I know."

"C'mon," Greg said. "Let's get you settled in."

Coming into tiny Cabin Number Five, Greg introduced Gordo to his bunkmates. Charlie Patterson was a chubby red-headed boy who looked about thirteen, while the Geller twins, Robbie and Richie, slight, dark and very quiet, seemed even younger. The twins slipped out of the cabin with barely a nod. Patterson quickly followed.

"Not very friendly, are they?" Greg observed, throwing Gordo's duffel bag onto one of the upper bunks.

"That's okay," Gordo said. "I didn't come here to make friends." He wanted to add "At least not with a bunch of little kids," but decided against the elaboration.

As Gordo unzipped his bag, Greg opened the top drawer in the small chest under the window and said, "Hey! Looks like no one's moved in here yet. You want it?"

"Sure," Gordo said, and proceeded to move his meager belongings into the drawer.

Greg leaned back against a small table on the other side of the room, watching Gordo unpack. There were a few moments of silence, which were beginning to get uncomfortable. What was Greg doing here anyway? Why didn't he leave? Didn't he have other campers to attend to? All these thoughts were running through Gordo's head, when suddenly Greg said, "So, Gordon…whazzup?"

Gordo sort of grunted. He never knew what to say when someone asked "Whazzup?" But he did note that Greg said "Gordon" in a totally unaffected way, not like Ethan Craft, who was always calling him "Gor-DAN!" He appreciated that. And he appreciated that Greg had not called him "Davey" again.

Greg leaned back against the table and looked Gordo over. Once again, it was getting to the point of being uncomfortable. Gordo was wondering what the older boy must be thinking. Then Greg said what he was thinking.

"So…what are you, Gordon? Like…sixteen?"

Gordo smirked. "No," he admitted. "But I'm…like…fifteen." Well, almost anyway. His birthday was next month. He didn't feel the need to say the word "fourteen."

Greg nodded knowingly. "This is your old man's idea, isn't it? Not yours."

"Yeah," Gordo said dejectedly. "How could you tell?"

"Well, you don't seem thrilled to be here. And frankly, I don't blame you. And I could tell right off that you're not fourteen."

Charlie Patterson banged his way back into the cabin, and Greg went on, " I mean why would you want to hang out with a bunch of babies like these guys here?"

Charlie walked past Greg to get his bat from where it was standing in the corner and Greg gave him a friendly slap on the side of the head. "Hey, Patterson, we're going to hit that ball right down center field this year, right?"

"Sure, sure…" Charlie said, then picked up his bat and ran back out of the cabin.

Alone once again, Greg walked across the room and picked up a baseball from the Geller bunk

"Well, it's like this," Greg said. "Whenever a kid shows up here who's way older than he should be for this camp, it's usually the parents idea." He easily tossed a baseball back and forth between his hands. "Usually it's cos the parents are hoping to save a little dough by sending their kid to the baby camp. The camp for kids your age is way _way_ more expensive. That's it, isn't it? Mom and Dad trying to save a little dough?"

Gordo didn't really know the reason his dad was sending him here, but he doubted it had anything to do with money. His mind drifted back to his earlier musings about his parents wanting to get him out of the way so they could have sex, and since he didn't really want to have to think about that, or any of this, anymore, he simply agreed, "Yeah, yeah. I guess it's something like that."

Greg smirked knowingly. "You know, this is so wrong. My dad should not be letting older kids into the camp. If any of the other parents were to find out, he could be like...sued, or something. But I guess your dad, he's a shrink, right?"

"Yeah."

"And I guess he's kinda been helping out my Uncle Ron. That's Sid's brother. My dad's brother. So he's grateful. I guess brothers should stick together. Right?"

Gordo shrugged. "I guess."

"Yeah, I guess too. But I wouldn't really know. I never had a brother."

"Me neither," Gordo said.

"I'm an only child," Greg added.

"Me too," Gordo answered, warming up to Greg even more now. He was, after all, a really friendly guy, and despite their many obvious differences, maybe there were in fact some ways they were more alike than different.

Greg eyed Gordo silently for a moment, then that crooked grin broke out across his face again. "And as an only child," he reported, "I'm spoiled rotten. Always get my way."

Gordo sighed dejectedly. "You got me there. I never get my way."

Greg stepped across the room and gave Gordo a friendly punch in the shoulder. Because of the size and strength of the older boy it hurt a bit more than was intended, and Gordo had to do his best to keep from wincing.

"Don't worry, Sixteen," Greg said. "You might not get the respect you deserve at home, but here, you're gonna be my buddy. I'll let you slide a little, alright?"

Gordo wasn't exactly sure what Greg meant by "slide," but he figured it was meant in a positive way, so he said, "Sure. Thanks."

"And I'll keep your secret," Greg offered, "I mean, about you being too old for this camp, if you keep the secret that my dad let you in. Deal?"

"Sure," Gordo said. "Deal."

"So it will be our secret," Greg said. "Are you good at keeping secrets?"

"I guess," Gordo said.

Greg grinned suddenly, quickly, and in that moment Gordo realized that his unique position of being somewhat older than the other campers was going to give him an edge these next three weeks. It was still entirely possible he would suck more at baseball than anyone else here, but now he didn't care. True, he hadn't come here to make friends, but it seemed that already he had a friend. And not at little kid friend. This was no longer about baseball, as far as he was concerned. This was all about growing up. Maybe, at last, he would have the opportunity to find out what it was like to be just an ordinary "guy."

"Hey! Watch this!" Greg said, finding two more baseballs and proceeding to juggle them in the middle of the room.

"Cool!" Gordo said. "Do you think you could teach me how to do that?"

"Sure," Greg said, never taking his eyes off the balls. "Anything you want to know, anything you want to learn, you just ask me, okay? I'm here for you, buddy."

Gordo smiled. "Thanks."


	6. Macho Man

**First, I have to express my thanks to one of my faithful readers, christylee. When I started thinking out this story, I didn't want poor Gordo to absolutely suck at baseball, but I couldn't figure out to make him any good at it. I mean, let's face it, in the Lizzie McGuire Universe, Gordo isn't exactly a top contender for an Olympic Gold Medal. But then I was reading christylee's story Teenager, in which Larry Tudgeman becomes a baseball star, and this sentence jumped out at me:**

**"He discovered that by applying scientific principles of force and motion, along with a mathematical knowledge of angles, and a lot of dumb luck, he could hit a baseball pretty damn far."**

**I don't personally know a whole lot about baseball, but this kind of makes sense to me, so with christylee's permission, I lifted this line and worked it into the upcoming chapter. Thanks, christy!**

**Next, I have to warn that in one or two more chapters, I am probably going to have to move this story over to the M section. If you like what you're reading, you can follow it over there, once it goes. I'll give you a heads up when it makes the move. But if you don't want to read something "M" rated, there's only one more chapter after this one before things start to heat up.**

**Well, having said all that…let's get on with the story!**

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Chapter Six – Macho Man

By the end of the first week, Gordo decided he didn't hate baseball as much as he thought he did. Maybe his dad had been right to send him to the "Little Kid" baseball camp. His skills were equal to most, so it wasn't as embarrassing as he had at first imagined. Sure, he was sweating his ass off and getting burned to a crisp, but each night as he collapsed into his bed, he knew he was hitting and catching better than he had been the day before, and with that sense of accomplishment, the aching in every muscle of his body was pleasantly dulled and absorbed into a good night's sleep.

After only a couple of days into the second week, Gordo decided that if someone like him could improve at something like baseball, it must be due mostly to the skill of the counselors at the camp. There were four altogether, including Greg. Joe and Angelo coached fielding skills, while Barry and Greg were the experts at batting. Greg was the expert…and Gordo was is assistant. Whenever their group was at batting practice, Gordo's job was to make sure that the ballpitch machine was fully loaded and working properly.

Despite these extra duties, he still got in plenty of hitting. Once Gordo had the basic moves down, his own obsessive need to succeed took over, and his improvement was quick and dramatic. It was surprising to come to the conclusion that after a lifetime of considering himself "bad at sports," maybe all he ever really needed was someone who knew what they were doing to show him how to do it. And that someone was Greg.

Greg was great with the kids. He loved baseball, and he knew how to explain the basics to his young students. "Look," he matter-of-factly told the group on the first morning. "Let's get this out of the way straight off. There's nothing magical about baseball. It's not magic, kids. It's _science_. I grew up watching my dad hitting them out of the park every weekend, thinking 'I'll never be able to do that!' But then one day, I was probably just a little older than you all, I was sitting in the most boring math class ever, when suddenly it came to me…Bam! Force and motion. Leverage and trajectory. Angles! I brought this all out on to the ball field with me, played around with it, and with a little bit of dumb luck, I suddenly I found that I could hit a baseball pretty damn far."

It was Greg's scientific approach to baseball that had to greatest effect on Gordo. Once he began to consider that a successful batting average was dependent upon a lot more than pure brute strength, Gordo felt he had a fighting chance at getting good at this. If not good, at least better.

But Greg's talent went far beyond science. Despite his debunking of baseball magic, he also knew how to inspire and motivate. Gordo quickly saw that he was not the only one in his group that got a charge out of Greg's enthusiastic "Dude! Are we playing baseball now or WHAT?" Everyone wanted to impress Coach Greg. Including Gordo. But as the Coach's assistant, and obvious favorite, Gordo was the only student that got to sit with Greg on the upper bleacher while the others had to keep practicing, or stand with him along the back fence while everyone else was retrieving practice baseballs from the field.

Watching the others retrieving a plethora of baseballs from the field, Gordo felt guilty. "I should go help," he said suddenly, taking a step forward.

But Greg reached out and held him back. "No way, Sixteen," he insisted, shaking his head. He called Gordo "Dave" when they were in the group, but preferred the nickname "Sixteen" when they were alone together, out of earshot. "Hey, you're my Assistant, remember?"

"I know. But Barry's going to--"

"Screw Barry," Greg said calmly. "This is my Dad's camp, remember? And you're my buddy, Buddy. I told you I was going to let you slide. Right? So this is me, letting you slide. Chill, dude."

Gordo sighed. He paused a moment, then admitted, "Chilling is not one of my strong points."

"I can see that," Greg said, with a slight smile. "But a ballplayer can't be uptight. You gotta loosen up, Sixteen. You're never gonna be a great ballplayer until you loosen up."

Gordo made an unintentional snorting noise. "Hate to disappoint you, Greg, but I seriously doubt I'm ever going to be a 'great ballplayer'."

"Well…you may not ever be one of the great ones," Greg said, "and you might not even get a college scholarship… like me," he added with a big grin, "but I think you could play some high school ball, if you wanted to."

Stunned, Gordo squeaked, "You're kidding!"

"No, I'm not kidding," Greg assured, still calmly. "You got this…intensity, know what I mean? I see this…focus…in you, that I don't see in a lot of other kids. Maybe it's cos you're not really a kid." Here he winked at Gordo, reminding him of their shared secret. Then he went on, "Or maybe it's just cos you're so damned smart. Being smart is good. You can't really be a dumb ball player, you know, there's no such thing. But whatever it is with you, one thing is for sure: no matter what you decide to do, you're never ever gonna be great at it, until you first learn how to _chill_."

Gordo peered through the chain link fence at the other boys, collecting baseballs from the field. He sighed dejectedly.

A moment later Greg was laughing, punching him in the arm. "See? That's what I mean! Exactly! Lighten up, dude! It's summer! It's baseball! You've heard that there's no crying in baseball?"

"Yeah, I've heard that somewhere," Gordo said glumly.

"Well, there's no sighing, either! Crying and sighing are right out! Not allowed! Get with the program, dude! C'mon! Let's get back out there and have some fun!"

Seeing Greg smiling at him, Gordo couldn't help but smile himself as they both ran back out on to the field. There was something about Greg, Gordo decided, that brought out the best in him. It was good to have someone who believed in him, who believed in his ability to succeed in sports (even if he himself could not be entirely convinced). It was even better that Greg hung out with him a little each evening, teaching him how to juggle, first with Styrofoam balls, next with hardboiled eggs from the mess hall, and finally with baseballs, just as Gordo had seen Greg do that first day. But perhaps it was best of all, Gordo decided, to finally, at last, have a guy friend with whom he could discuss…"guy things."

Mainly: girls.

Gordo had spent so much of his life so far hanging out with girls, that discussing girls had never really been much of an option for him. Oh sure, he'd been peripherally involved in a lot of conversations _with_ girls--conversations about what color nail polish would look best with a fuchsia pink sweater, and what a bitch Kate Sanders was, and if Tom Welling was more the kind of guy you would want to bring home for Thanksgiving Dinner or get stuck on a deserted island with. Gordo pretty much let his mind wander during these conversations. The trouble was, lately, when he found his mind wandering, he ended up thinking about how low-cut that fuchsia pink sweater might be, and whether or not he would ever want to be stranded on a deserted island with Kate Sanders. Of course the answer to that last one was "No." He never wanted to be stranded anywhere with anyone…unless it was Lizzie.

So it shouldn't have been surprising to him that after only three juggling lessons, sitting on a picnic bench out side the mess hall with Greg, when Greg somehow got onto the topic of his latest girlfriend, Kerri, and what their plans were for Friday night, Gordo felt his thoughts nostalgically drifting back to the girl he had left behind in Hillridge, leaning out her upper window, an angel's halo of light all around her long, blonde hair….

"Hey…"

A moment later, Gordo heard it again, this time more insistently.

"Hey! Sixteen!"

"What!" Gordo exclaimed.

Greg looked at him quizzically. "Where were you just now, buddy? Definitely not here."

Gordo sighed. "No, I…"

"A girl?"

Gordo sighed again. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

Greg smiled, crookedly. "There are some things I just know," he said, still smiling. Obviously he was highly amused. "Tell me about her."

Gordo hesitated. Here it was: time to do the "guy thing." He didn't know how to start, and he was afraid once he did start, he wouldn't know how to stop. He felt pretty sure he wasn't going to be any good at this.

Greg seemed to sense his reluctance, seemed to understand it, and after a few moments, he encouraged, softly, "No really. Tell me about her, Dave. I really want to know."

Gordo bit his lip. Could he trust Greg…this much? Or maybe the better question was: could he trust himself?

Greg waited. He shifted on the picnic bench. He seemed anxious for the conversation to continue, and for a brief moment, that worried Gordo. Why should Greg want to know about Lizzie? What harm could there be in talking about her? Sure, if Lizzie, or Miranda, were to ever _meet_ Greg, they would go totally ga-ga, and this budding baseball star might very likely take the place of Tom Welling in their hypothetical Thanksgiving or deserted island fantasy debate. But at this moment, there was no danger of that actually happening. There was only this opportunity for Gordo, for the first time in his life, to speak aloud his infatuation for a girl. The Girl. And that, he decided, was what terrified him.

Did Greg know that he was terrified? Did he sense it somehow? Then why was his voice so quiet, and so gentle, as he asked, "Well…okay…let's start with something easy. What's her name?"

Gordo gulped. "Lizzie," he said.

And after that, there was no stopping him. He told all. He spoke into the darkness of the summer night, revealing everything he knew about Lizzie, describing her in detail, the beauty of her physical appearance, the musical inflection of her laugh, her cheery disposition. He outlined her loveable quirks, her silly sayings, all of her most deeply cherished convictions, which he found so noble and endearing. By his description, Greg must surely think that Lizzie was a saint.

Then Gordo told what had happened in Rome. Only he didn't quite tell it the way it actually happened. In this version, Gordo was still the hero, but the conquering hero, whose righteous deeds had at last earned him the favor of his beloved. Yes, Lizzie had kissed him. He told that, embellished that. There was no need for Greg to know that he had not kissed her back.

Consequently, Greg felt compelled to exclaim, "Dude! You're in!"

"Hope so," Gordo said, feeling guilty about his deception. "I guess I'll find out for sure once school starts. You see, Lizzie's been grounded ever since we got back from Rome, so I haven't really had much of a chance to see her, or talk to her."

Having said this, Gordo once again remembered the last time he had actually seen Lizzie, in her window, looking like an angel, even as she uncaringly responded to his heartfelt "I'll miss you" with "Well, it doesn't really matter, does it?" It hurt Gordo quite a bit to remember this, but he didn't let Greg see his disappointment.

"Yeah…but she kissed you!" Greg reminded excitedly. "That means she's into you! All you gotta do now is go with the flow, buddy! Turn on the charm. Pick it back up, right where you left off."

"Yeah, I guess," Gordo said.

"What's the matter, Sixteen?" Greg asked, finally picking up on his gloomy mood. "You don't think she's already forgotten you, do you?"

"Well…you know…she's a _girl,_ right? Sometimes it's hard to know what she's thinking."

Greg laughed. "I hear you there. But no worries, Sixteen. If she's been grounded all this time, it's not like she's met anyone new, right? And you are so fucking _cute_, dude, how could she have possibly forgotten you? How could she possibly want anyone else but you?"

"What?" Gordo exclaimed.

"Oh, come on!" Greg laughed. "Don't act like you don't know! You've got the stuff girls really dig."

"Huh?" Gordo was mystified.

Greg kept laughing. "You're a real trip, man, you know? You're all…_sensitive_…and you've got the smarts, and all that curly hair. Girls dig curly hair. And they dig smart, sensitive guys. Well, girls that are not _sluts_. And your Lizzie is not a slut. She's a really decent girl, I can tell. And you're a really decent guy. You two deserve each other. It's going to work out for you. I can just feel it."

"Well…thanks…" Gordo said, not knowing what else to say. How did one respond to that?

"Just one thing I want to know," Greg said. "You gotta tell me, dude. How was it?"

"How was what?"

"The kiss. How was it kissing her? Is she a good kisser? That means a lot, you know. You want someone who's a good kisser."

Gordo sighed. "Yeah…she's a good kisser…"

"Well, tell me about it…!"

"Dude!" Gordo said, using Greg's own term. "What is it you want from me? What do you want to know?"

"Was it…well, did she use her tongue? Did you? Did you slip her the tongue?"

"Dude!"

"Did you give her a little feel at the same time? Get a little boob action, maybe?"

"Fuck!" Gordo said. "You sure do ask some personal questions, don't you?"

Greg laughed. "I don't mean nothin' by it, pal. I just love hearing all about that kind of stuff. Don't you?"

"Well…I…I'm…I don't like to…you know …'kiss and tell,'" Gordo said.

"Well, that's fine," Greg said. "I can respect that. I guess. But it's no big deal, really. Still. You need to loosen up a little. But I told you that already, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did."

Greg jumped off the picnic bench and stretched. "Hey! It's been a blast hearing all about your hot babe, Lizzie. And don't worry, Sixteen." Here he turned, playfully punched Gordo a few times, and tousled his curls. "I still got a few more weeks left to work on you. I'll loosen you up yet."

He looked at Gordo, smiling, and one more time he reached out and tousled his curls. "Yep," he said. "Stick with me, Sixteen. I'll have you good and loose just in time to go back to your Lizzie."


	7. Phone Calls

I know this seems like a really long chapter, but a good chunk of it is dialog, and dialog reads very quickly, so I don't think you'll get bored. Tell me what you think! And thanks for reading! BGM

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PHONE CALLS

Before Gordo went to Italy over the summer, his parents gave him a cell phone, so he could get in touch with them "in case of an emergency." When he got back to the States, they let him keep the cell phone, perhaps imagining that having the ability to call just about anyone at a moment's notice would inspire him to call just about anyone at a moment's notice, thus increasing his circle of friends (and girlfriends too, his father hoped.)

The truth was, however, that since getting back from Italy, Gordo had not used the phone at all. After all, Lizzie was grounded, telephone privileges suspended, and Miranda was in Mexico, and as far as Gordo knew, did not even have access to a phone. So the shiny little lump of metal and circuitry sat heavy and lifeless in his pocket.

Until now.

Sure, Lizzie was still grounded, still unable to use the phone, but ever since Greg had called Lizzie a "hot babe," Gordo found he missed her more than ever. He missed her so much, in fact, that he was wiling to risk the humiliation of having to deal with Mrs. and Mrs. McGuire on the phone (or worse yet, Matt!) in the vain hope that maybe, somehow, Lizzie would be able to get to the phone first, and he could hear her sweet voice, even if only for a few moments, before the parental units rushed in and put a stop to it.

His first attempt had been immediately after hearing Greg call Lizzie a "hot babe." That night, before going into his cabin, he paused outside the door and rang the McGuire's phone, anxiously waiting for Lizzie's voice. Instead he got Matt, chuckling over Gordo's thinly disguised desperation.

"Oh, Gordo, Gordo," Matt chided. "Now what are you thinking, young man? You know Lizzie's grounded for the whole summer! Call back after school starts. Okay? Okay."

Gordo slammed the phone shut, cursing Matt. Yes, that had been humiliating! But it didn't stop him from trying the next night…and the next…and the next. And sometimes, if he could find a moment alone, he would try during the middle of the day as well.

Usually he got Matt on the phone, and thus suffered through a series of condescending jabs. One time he got Mrs. McGuire, who sighed audibly and said, "Aww, Gordo, honey. You know I can't let you talk to Lizzie. What kind of parent would I be if I didn't stick to my guns?"

"The kind of parent who has a little compassion on a poor kid who's been shuffled off to some stupid baseball camp, away from home, away from family, away from everything that is familiar and good in his life, wanting nothing more than to talk to a friendly voice from his past?"

Mrs. McGuire sighed again. "Oh, Gordo!" she lamented. "I know it feels like it, but it's not the end of the world. Honestly. And listen! I hear that Miranda will be back in town in a few days. You should try calling her and--oh, Gordo! I'm so sorry, I have to go! Sam is working on his gnomes, and he's just spilt paint all over the--"

"Wait!" Gordo called. "At least tell Lizzie I--"

But there was no one on the other end.

A few nights later, Gordo was surprised to hear his cell phone ringing in his pocket. He reached for it expectantly. Could it be Lizzie? Could it be that Mrs. McGuire was not as tough an old bird as she tried to be, and had been softened by his sad story and pleas of desperation?

Gordo's spirits lifted…and then fell. But only a little. It wasn't Lizzie calling him, but it was Miranda. He didn't have the same feelings for Miranda that he did for Lizzie, but she was a very good friend he had not seen or spoken to in such a long time. So he opened the phone, put it to his ear and said, "Hello?" Very carefully. More than anything, Gordo hated to be embarrassed, so he always answered the phone carefully, just in case it wasn't actually who he thought it was on the other end.

But it was. "Hola! Senor Gordo! Como estas?" sang Miranda's cheery voice.

"Hey Miranda!" Gordo all but laughed. "Are you still in Mexico?"

"No. Home at last! But my Spanish has gotten very good these last couple of months."

"I'll bet!" Gordo said, feeling himself smile. "So how was it, Chiquita?"

Miranda launched into a lengthy description of her entire trip, making sure Gordo completely understood what a pain it was to travel with her parents and little sister, moaning about the lack of decent TV shows at her aunt and uncle's humble abode, but singing the praises of the Mexican people. Especially the guys, who were…_so cute!_ And especially this one guy, Vincente, the 16 year old brother of her cousin Carlos' fiancée, who was a frequent visitor to La Casa Sanchez, and who brought Miranda lots of CD's to listen to, beat the pants off her in Scrabble, even when they played in English, and who taught her the very best way to cook enchiladas, using shredded beef instead of ground beef--

"Wow, that's great you had such a good time," Gordo interrupted, not sure how much longer he could listen to Miranda babble on about her fabulous summer, complete with romantic interest from a member of the opposite sex, while his summer, in comparison, pretty much sucked. He had to change the topic.

"But I guess it's good to be back home, huh?" Gordo shot out. "And to have some time to chill before we gotta head on to high school."

"It's okay," Miranda said, and he could hear her shrug. "All in all, though, I'd actually rather be back in Mexico." Only she didn't say "Mexico" she said "MEH-hee-co." For some reason that made Gordo very depressed. Miranda was having exciting, romantic adventures in a foreign country, and here he was…batting baseballs.

"Well…" he mused, more to himself than actually talking to Miranda. "I went to Italy. I guess that counts for something, huh?"

"Oh yeah!" Miranda exclaimed. "Italy! Cool! I heard all about it!"

"You did?"

"Yeah. All about Lizzie singing at that awards show…unreal, huh?"

"Yes, very," Gordo had to agree.

"I wish I could have been there. I would have loved to see that."

"It was…cool," Gordo admitted. "Lizzie was very cool."

"So I've heard," Miranda said. "Though Lizzie told me she didn't feel so cool. She was as nervous as--"

"Wait," Gordo said. "'Lizzie told you'? When did Lizzie tell you? When did you talk to her?"

"Just before I called you," Miranda said.

"You…you…" Gordo stuttered, then, "How did you talk to her? Did you see her? Did you go over her house? Is she…is she okay? Is she--"

"Lizzie's fine," Miranda said, somewhat confused by the tone of concern in Gordo's voice. "And no, I didn't go over her house. Apparently no one can see her. She's grounded. Big time."

"I know! Then how--?"

"I called her."

"And how did you…how did you get past her mom?"

"I didn't," Miranda said smugly. "I got past her dad. He's such a pushover, you know? At first he was all insistent about being a stern parent and sticking to the grounding, but then I did this kind of pouting thing, and went on and on about how much I missed my very bestest friend in the world, and how it just wasn't fair, and I made it sound like I was going to cry, and…he caved. He totally caved."

"Damn!" Gordo exclaimed.

"Yeah," Miranda agreed. "I'm good, ain't I? I really know how to work they parental units, don't I?"

"I should take lessons from you," Gordo conceded, quickly. "But tell me what Lizzie said!"

"About Italy?" Miranda questioned. "But why? You were there. And speaking of which, I heard you played a pretty major role in exposing that Paolo creep."

"Yeah, yeah, I know all about that," Gordo said impatiently. "What I mean is, tell me how Lizzie's doing _now_, how she--"

"I heard you almost got yourself sent home, Gordo. That you covered for Lizzie, you _lied_ for her."

"Yeah. I did. Sort of."

"So you were like…really protecting her, weren't you?"

"I…I…"

"I mean, you really bent over backwards to keep her out of trouble, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but it didn't exactly work, did it?" Gordo complained. "I mean, she still got grounded for the whole summer. I've barely even been able to see her since…since…"

Since she had kissed him on the rooftop. That's what he was thinking, but he didn't want to say it to Miranda. Still, he wondered if Miranda knew, he wondered if Lizzie had told him. So, tentatively, he asked, "Did Lizzie…you know…did she say anything else about me?"

"You mean OTHER than what a great friend you were, trying to save her butt?"

Gordo sighed, deflated. There was that word: friend. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Did she say anything else?"

"Well…" Miranda mused, still totally unaware where Gordo was trying to go with this. "She told me you came to see her one night, that you threw pebbles at her window or something."

"Yeah, I did."

"She told me you were being sent off to some baseball camp. Are you?"

"Yeah. I'm here now."

"So how is it?"

"It's fine."

"Are there any cute guys there?" Miranda wondered.

"There's--no! There's not. It's just a bunch of…you know…kids."

"But what about the counselors? Sometimes there are really cute counselors at camp, aren't there?"

The direction this conversation was taking was getting Gordo more and more aggravated. "Look, Miranda," he said flatly, "I don't want to talk about this baseball camp. I want to know how Lizzie is doing. I want to know what she said."

Miranda felt somewhat taken back by Gordo's abrupt tone and answered in kind. "Lizzie is fine. And I already _told_ you what she said. What more do you want, Gordo?"

"I want…I want…"

But he couldn't tell Miranda what he wanted. It was too embarrassing.

"I don't want anything," he said dejectedly.

"Yes, you do!" Miranda said. "You're acting really weird, Gordo. You want something."

"Stop being stupid," Gordo said sharply. "You're not even making sense now."

"Why are you jumping all over me?" Miranda demanded, just as sharply. "I didn't do anything."

Gordo sighed. Miranda was right, of course. He was frustrated with himself, frustrated with his inability to see or even talk to Lizzie, but more frustrated with the knowledge that even if he could talk with her, he wouldn't be able to say what he wanted to say. What he needed to say.

He sighed again.

"Gordo…" Miranda said quietly.

"No, I'm sorry," Gordo answered instantly. "You didn't do anything. I guess it's just…well, I'm a little bit homesick, I guess. You know how that is, right? I mean, after being away from home for so long, you must…"

"Yeah," Miranda conceded. "I guess so. But not really. Cos at least I had Vincente to hang out with. Somehow, he managed to keep me…very distracted." Saying this, she giggled.

Gordo rolled his eyes. Oh, no! Not again. He didn't want to hear anything more about Miranda's Mexican boyfriend. He didn't want to hear about anybody being happy, while he was feeling so miserable.

"I'm looking forward to high school," Gordo said, suddenly changing the subject. "Aren't you?"

"I guess so," Miranda said. "It's a little scary, though, don't you think? I mean it's like Lizzie was just saying--"

"What was Lizzie just saying?" Gordo spit out before he could stop himself.

"She was saying…"

"What? What?"

"Geez, Gordo! Get a grip!"

"Miranda, didn't you just tell me that you had told me everything Lizzie said? And now you're telling me she said something else? What? What? What did she say?"

"Damn, Gordo! What is with you? I haven't seen you for like two months, and I come back, and it seems like all you want to do is talk about Lizzie, it seems like you're totally obsessed with…with…."

Oh crap. Gordo heard Miranda's voice slow, her tone change. She got it. She'd caught on. The gig was up.

"Damn!" Miranda repeated. "Gordo! You've got to be kidding! I can't believe it! Don't tell me you're obsessed with--"

"Hey, you asked me if there were any cute guys here," Gordo tried desperately. "Well, as a matter of fact there is. There's this one coach, I meant to tell you about him, he's eighteen, and he's got blonde hair and blue eyes and if you saw him, I'm sure you would--"

"Gordo!" Miranda snapped, cutting off his frantic attempt to divert her attention. Miranda would not be diverted.

Gordo leaned heavily against the outside wall of his cabin. He closed his eyes, grit his teeth, and waited for Miranda to go on.

"Gordo," she said in absolute wonder. "Is this true? Have you got the hots for Lizzie?"

Gordo grunted in exasperation. "Don't say 'the hots.' It sounds so vulgar."

"Well then, are you…are you…like… 'in love' with her or something like that?"

Gordo took a deep breath. It felt strange to be having this conversation, but in a strange way, it also felt good to be getting this off his chest, sharing. "Yeah," he admitted. "Something like that."

Then it happened. It was the worst thing that had happened so far. Miranda made a noise. It was kind of a snort, kind of a laugh. It was completely involuntary, completely honest. And that one noise told Gordo that what Miranda knew about her bestest friend in the whole wide world was the very thing he himself most dreaded: that there was no way Lizzie could EVER be interested in a guy like him.

"What?" Gordo demanded angrily.

"I…I didn't say anything!"

"Yes, you did," Gordo insisted. "You…snorted. You laughed. Sort of."

"Gordo. I didn't laugh. I promise."

"You think I'm being ridiculous."

"I didn't say that!" Miranda shot back.

"But you were thinking that."

"Gordo! Don't tell me what I was thinking."

"But you were thinking that, weren't you?"

"I…I wasn't thinking anything."

"You weren't thinking anything?" Gordo challenged. "I tell you I have the hots for Lizzie, and you aren't thinking _anything_? Come on, Miranda! I'm not stupid."

"I know you're not stupid, Gordo. If there's one thing I've always known about you, it's that you're not stupid. You've always been the smartest, most reasonable, most level-headed…out of all of us, the most grounded in _reality_…"

"Until now, right?" Gordo couldn't believe how upset he was by Miranda's attitude. "You think I'm being totally _unrealistic_ now--don't you?--to think that Lizzie could ever be interested in me. You're thinking that there's no way in hell she could ever consider me 'boyfriend material.'"

"Gordo, Lizzie is your friend," Miranda said, flat out. "She's always been your friend. She always will be your friend. Same as me. I don't think she _can_ see you as 'boyfriend material' any more than I can. We've all just been through too much together, haven't we? We're friends, good friends…_great_ friends. And sometimes it's…better….to have a friend, a true friend…"

"Stop," Gordo said wearily. "Just stop, okay? Spare me the 'Friends' speech, whydontcha?"

"Gordo, I'm not saying you're never gonna find someone," Miranda said gently. "I'm just saying…I doubt…I seriously doubt it's going to be Lizzie."

Gordo felt his heart drop into his toes. "Oh yeah?" he went on defiantly, feeling hollow. "Well, that just shows how much you know. What do you know, anyway? You've been away all summer. You don't know what's been going on. You don't know that…yeah!" he suddenly remembered. "You don't know what happened between me and Lizzie in Italy, do you?"

"Know what?" Miranda said. "What happened? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about that Lizzie kissed me," Gordo announced. "If she's not interested in me, then why did she kiss me? Huh?"

"She kissed you?" Miranda asked in astonishment.

"Yes! She did! On the rooftop of our hotel. Right after that award show."

"I didn't know…" Miranda said, the tone of astonishment still in her voice.

"That's right, you didn't know," Gordo replied arrogantly.

"She didn't tell me…"

"No, I don't suppose she would have."

"She told me all about Paolo. She told me about the show. She even told me that she and Kate kind of became friends, but she didn't tell me…"

"She and Kate are friends now?" Gordo said. Now it was his turn to be astonished.

"Well, not really. They just sort of came to this understanding…"

And as Miranda went on, divulging all the details Lizzie had shared with her about Kate, about Paolo, about the hotel, about all the beautiful clothes she had worn, about the crazy way the Italians drove their scooters all over the streets, about what a Nazi the new principal Ms. Ungermeyer was, and all about how Ethan was always "ready for spaghetti," slowly, slowly, it began to dawn on Gordo: Miranda must have had Lizzie on the phone for a _long_ time. She now knew almost as much about the trip to Italy as Gordo himself knew. In fact, in some ways, Miranda now knew _more_ about that trip than Gordo did. Because Lizzie had apparently shared her thoughts and insights and feelings with Miranda to a degree that she had not shared with Gordo.

Of course, Gordo had not been able to see or talk to Lizzie for weeks on end. If they could have spent time together, maybe Gordo would know as much as Miranda now did.

But none of that really mattered, did it? Because this one fact remained: Lizzie had shared all the details of her Rome vacation with her bestest friend in all the world…except for one small detail. That kiss on the rooftop. Obviously Lizzie had felt that Ethan's obsession with spaghetti was more noteworthy than that one stupid little kiss on the rooftop.

Miranda kept talking, but Gordo could not hear. His heart was breaking with the knowledge that Lizzie had not thought their kiss important enough to share with Miranda. His heart was also breaking with Miranda's very real and very astute observation that Lizzie was his _friend,_ and _only_ his friend. That it always had been that way, and always would be.

Suddenly Gordo knew he was a fool to think it could ever be otherwise. The more Miranda's voice hummed on through his cell phone (he vaguely perceived that now, somehow, she once again was talking about Vincente), the more clearly Gordo saw that he was a fool. Miranda had completely convinced him that Lizzie was never going to happen for him. And by this point he had all but convinced himself that he was never going to be considered "boyfriend material" by any girl he might ever have the slightest interest in.

Miranda kept talking, and Gordo didn't have enough strength to stop her. He wanted more than anything to put this conversation to an end, but didn't know how. And then…relief! A way out of his misery.

"Hey, Miranda….Miranda!" he had to yell.

Miranda stopped talking. "What?"

"I gotta go. There's …uh…I see one of the coaches, he's coming my way. I don't even know if I'm supposed to be talking on the phone this late."

"This late?" Miranda said. "It's only nine o'clock."

"Yeah, but I should go. I don't want to get in trouble. Besides that, my folks, you know, they'll freak out if I use too many minutes."

"Well, do you have free minutes on weekends?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Then call me on Saturday, okay?"

"Okay," Gordo agreed. "And Miranda, hey! Listen. Do me a favor? If you happen to talk to Lizzie again…don't…don't mention any of this, okay?"

"I won't," Miranda promised. "Cone of Silence. Right?"

"Right," Gordo said glumly, not convinced. Miranda was well-known for being terrible at keeping secrets. By tomorrow morning she and Lizzie would probably be laughing together over what a pathetic loser he was.

And with that thought in his mind, he snapped his phone shut, and looked up at Greg, who had just arrived on the scene.

"Hey, Sixteen," Greg said, grinning crookedly. "Big love chat with your girlfriend Lizzie?"

Gordo made a sour face. "Not exactly."

Greg looked at him. And kept looking at him. And soon Gordo felt certain that everything he was feeling was so plainly evident in his face. So he turned away, looking out over the distant ball field, fighting that tingly feeling just under his nose that meant tears could be imminent. He hated that feeling.

Greg came up behind him. "Bad news?" he asked quietly.

"Not really," Gordo said, steadying his voice, when everything else about him felt anything _but_ steady. "It's just…it's just…Damn!" he exclaimed. Then, punching the wall: "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

"Whoa!" Greg exclaimed, reaching out to put a hand on Gordo's shoulder. "Take it easy, Dave!"

"Fuck! No. I'm sorry. I shouldn't say that. It's just…it's…"

"Hey," Greg said, squeezing Gordo's shoulder. "You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to."

"I don't want to," Gordo said flatly.

"Fair enough," Greg agreed. "But you do have to come with me. Okay? Right now."

"I'm sorry," Gordo said quickly. "I didn't mean to cuss like that. It won't happen again. I--"

"Fuck!" Greg answered with a grin. "You're not in trouble, dude. Do you think you're in trouble? For cussing? Fuck, dude! Get real!"

"Then…then what?" Gordo asked. "Where are we going?"

Greg just looked at him, and Gordo could swear he saw his brilliant blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

"You look like a guy that needs a little diversion," Greg announced. "Come on, Sixteen. I know a place. And right now, as it turns out, I happen to have exactly what you need."


	8. Into the Woods

**Back in Chapter 6, I said that this story would be moving over to the M section soon. Well, scratch that. It won't be quite so soon. I'm really enjoying writing this story, and I'm finding a lot more detail to put in it than I originally thought I would, so the next "chapter" I thought I was writing is really going to be 3 or 4 chapters long. It's going to take a while to get to the M stuff now.**

**Hey I want thank my few loyal reader/reviewers. You have really inspired me to keep going with this. I just hope you all are going to keep on enjoying this story. And I also wonder if what you think is going to happen is actually what's going to happen, how well you'll be able to predict. As Bellafan123 mentioned, there are "lots of clues" I'm trying to leave along the way, clues I hope you're picking up on, clues that will seem natural as the story moves along. And I wonder if you like Greg, or don't like him. I would love to get some feedback on that.**

**So here's the next chapter. Enjoy.**

"Beer!"

Greg peeked over the top of the refrigerator door, lifting his eyebrows up and down, up and down, giving Gordo a big grin. "That's what you need, buddy! Beer!"

In the middle of the small kitchen, Gordo stood speechless. When Greg had brought him here to the office cabin, Gordo had no idea what to expect. But this made a lot of sense, didn't it? Especially to someone like Greg. High school sports star, good-looking guy with lots of girlfriends, and a social life Gordo would probably be overwhelmed just to think about--sure, a guy like Greg would think beer was the answer to all life's troubles.

But Gordo did not. And obviously, it showed.

"What?" Greg asked, closing the fridge door and swinging the six-pack from a single finger. "Don't tell me you don't like beer!"

"I…I…" Gordo floundered, then, "Well…sure! Of course I do! Who doesn't? It's just…well, there's practice in the morning. I don't want to be, you know, hung over or anything."

Greg continued smiling, and ruffled Gordo's curls as he passed him on the way out the door. "It's only a six pack," he said, rolling his eyes. "Three for me, three for you. How plastered can you get on three beers? Come on. You'll be fine."

Greg made it sound so simple, so harmless, and so Gordo followed him out the door, obediently. He already felt like enough of a dope after his conversation with Miranda, he didn't want to further embarrass himself with Greg by refusing to drink beer.

Outside the office cabin, as Greg pulled out a ring of keys and turned to lock the door, Gordo suddenly realized, "Hey! Those can't be your beers! You're not old enough to drink."

"Not legally," Greg admitted.

"Then what are they…your dad's?"

"Yeah."

"You're stealing your dad's beer?"

Greg had appeared only mildly amused by Gordo so far, but now he laughed out loud. "Ha ha! Not quite, Sixteen. Let's just say this is the 'family beer'."

"Your dad lets you drink?"

"Sure," Greg said easily. "As long as I keep knocking 'em out of the park and don't let my grades slip, he's cool. He knows everybody's gotta have a way to relax, and beer makes sense to him."

"Wow…" Gordo marveled. "Can you say 'liberal'?"

"Yeah. We are. We're a very liberal family. My folks are good, they don't have a problem with anything I do…well, practically anything," he added quickly.

"How could parents who let you drink beer have a problem with anything else you do?" Gordo wondered.

"Don't worry about it," Greg said shortly. "Come on. I told you I got this special place. The best place in the world for chugging a few. Let's go."

Greg led Gordo off into the dark, past the quiet cabins, through the woods past the ball fields. All the while he swung the six-pack on one finger, humming a song Gordo didn't know.

"Hey, wait!" Gordo said, when he saw that Greg was about to lead them off the sliver of a path they were following, into deep bushes and branches. "Where the hell are we going anyway?"

"Don't worry, dude," Greg said easily. "It's a little rough right here, watch out, some of these bushes have these thorny things, but once we get past this, it's smooth sailing all the way. Here, I'll make a path for you."

Greg pressed himself against the bushes, opening a small space for Gordo to pass in front of him. It was so dark here, under a strong canopy of trees, that Gordo could barely see where he was going. As he slid past Greg, he felt the icy coldness of the beer cans skim his right arm.

"Yah!" he exclaimed.

Greg laughed. "Don't be such a wuss!" he said, and then, Gordo couldn't be completely sure, but it seemed that this time Greg purposely reached out with the cold six-pack to press it against his elbow.

"Hey!" Gordo complained, shooting past him, and Greg laughed again.

"Ha ha! But it got you to the other side, didn't it?" Greg said, coming out of the bushes.

Gordo looked around. They were in a kind of clearing, a grassy area with some scattered boulders, and no trees above. The moon came out from behind a cloud, and Gordo could plainly see the openness of the place.

"Is this it?" he asked.

"Almost," Greg answered, and continued walking.

Gordo followed.

As they trekked across this open area, Gordo soon began to hear noises he hadn't noticed before. All around, crickets sang. Some small animal scampered into the bushes. In the distance, an owl hooted.

Gordo took a deep breath. The air was clear, and smelled good. "What is that?" he asked.

"What is what?"

"That smell. It's like…flowers."

Greg laughed. "Yeah, well…duh! We're in the middle of freakin' nature. There might tend to be flowers."

"At night?"

"Oh that! Night blooming jasmine. What! Don't tell me you've never smelled it before!"

"I…no…" Gordo said. "I guess you could say I'm pretty much a city kid."

Greg snorted. "You're from Hillridge, dude. I know the place. It's _not_ the city."

"Yeah, but it's not…_here_, either. And how do you know Hillridge anyway? It's like fifty miles away!"

"Hillridge High is one of our greatest rivals. I mean 'was' our rival. My rival. Damn! It's so hard to remember I'm not in high school anymore. But anyway, I played a lot of away games at HH."

"HH? Yeah, I've heard it called that. That's where I'm going!"

Gordo bit his tongue, wondering how that had sounded. He hoped Greg interpreted it as "that's where I've BEEN going" not "that's where I'll BE going." Gordo had let Greg believe he was nearly sixteen, and if it became obvious he wasn't even a freshman yet, surely Greg would think that much less of him. At least that's what Gordo supposed.

But Greg said, easily, "I know you're from Hillridge, dude. I've got access to everyone's files. In my dad's office. I know Hillridge, and I know you're from there. That's why I told you I could see you playing high school ball. I could see you on the HH team."

Gordo snorted. "Are they that bad?"

"Huh?!" Greg exclaimed. "Don't you know anything, Sixteen? They kick ass! That's why I said they were our 'rival' not our 'whipping boy.' And quit dissin' yourself, alright? I said you could play for them, and I meant it. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even this year, but someday. Yeah. I can see it."

Gordo walked on in silence, mulling this over. It was hard for him to believe anyone could really consider him good at sports. Greg was probably just flattering him…but why? Did he getting some kind of perverse pleasure out of unreasonably building up a kid's expectations? Was he secretly laughing at Gordo? But when Gordo looked across at Greg, though he saw that Greg was smiling, he certainly wasn't laughing.

They walked in silence for a few more minutes. It was just enough time for Gordo to be alone in his own head, thinking, "What the hell am I doing out here?" True, though he was not exactly a "city kid" as he had claimed, neither was he the outdoorsy type, and right now he was just about as outdoors as he could possibly be. He didn't know if he had ever been so far away from civilization before, and even if he had, certainly not in the middle of the night. He looked at Greg anxiously and heard himself asking, only half in jest, "Are we there yet?"

"What's the matter, Sixteen? You afraid the beer will be too warm by the time we get to it?"

"No, I…well, I…"

"Cos it won't be," Greg said. "Still icy cold. Feel." And he reached out his hand with the six- pack, touching the cold cans to the back of Gordo's neck.

"Cut it out!" Gordo cried, scurrying away.

Greg laughed. "Wuss! You're so funny. You know that?"

"It's not funny! It's…it's cold!" Gordo complained.

"I didn't say _it_ was funny. I said_ you _were funny."

"No, I'm not," Gordo said defensively.

"Well, you make _me _laugh," Greg said. "In my book, that's funny."

Gordo didn't want to talk about this anymore. He felt…weird. He wasn't sure what he was feeling, but he felt like…like he was being treated like a baby. Or like a _girl._ Suddenly he wished he was anywhere but here.

"Oh, don't be like that," Greg said, noticing him sulking. "I'm sorry, kid. I was just playin' with ya. I won't do it again. I just thought it would be good for you to…you know…lighten up a little."

Gordo walked on silently, not looking at him. The sounds of the night continued all around them, but now Gordo was too stuck in his anxious thoughts to hear them.

"Well, how about this?" Greg suggested suddenly. "Want to see something cool?"

Curiosity lifted Gordo out of his gloom. "What?" he asked suspiciously.

"Listen!" Greg said. "You hear that?"

Gordo listened. "What is it? A bird?"

Greg grinned. "Ya think?"

"A nightingale?" Gordo tried.

"Nice try, city boy. But you're wrong."

"Then what?" Gordo demanded. "What is it?"

"A chipmunk."

"A chipmunk?"

"Yeah! You ever heard of the California Chipmunk?"

Gordo started to answer, then closed his mouth. Somehow he felt Greg might be making fun of him again.

"You ever seen one?" Greg asked.

"No," Gordo replied, knowing that was a safe answer.

"You want to?" Greg asked expectantly.

Gordo hesitated, confused. "Why would I want to?"

"Oh, come on!" Greg encouraged. "Live a little! They're really cute."

"Why would I care about 'cute'?" Gordo asked irritably.

"Cos when you get back home, you can tell Lizzie all about it, and she'll go 'ooh' and 'ahh' and 'how adorable!' And she'll always remember how you were interested in nature. Girls really dig that shit. It will make you a big hero in her eyes. It will make her _want _you. I swear. Come on."

Greg said "Come on" so quickly that Gordo didn't have time to recall everything Miranda had just said to him about Lizzie. He didn't have time to contemplate how unlikely it was that anything he might say or do could make Lizzie _want_ him.

Greg was already on the prowl, skulking like an Indian guide, following the _chirp chirp_ of the California Chipmunk. Gordo sighed. This adventure was getting more surreal by the moment.

"Quick!" Greg whispered, "Over here!" He motioned Gordo over to a small clump of bushes, pointing excitedly.

Gordo came to Greg's side, peering into the bushes, and Greg grabbed his arm. In the moonlight, it was just light enough to see a tiny little animal with a bushy tail and beady eyes, juggling some kind of food in its diminutive front paws.

"See it?" Greg whispered.

Gordo had to admit it was kind of cool. He had never seen a chipmunk before, except in documentaries and Disney cartoons. He had to admit it…but he didn't admit it to Greg, not sure how goofy he might sound.

But Greg seemed totally enthralled by the small creature. "Hey," he said suddenly. "Should we give it some beer? Do you think it would like beer?"

Once again, Gordo was not sure if Greg was "just playing" with him. He thought it best to remain silent.

They watched the chipmunk for a few moments, then Greg said, "I gave one a pop tart once. It didn't like it much."

"I think they eat, like, nuts and berries and stuff, don't they?"

"Yeah, I guess. Foresty stuff, nature stuff. Wouldn't you think?"

"Yeah," Gordo agreed.

"I like to come out here in the Springtime," Greg went on after a few more moments. "You know why, dude? Cos in the Spring, it's mating season, and if you stake this place out long enough, you're sure enough gonna see two crazy chipmunks fuckin' like mad, making wild chipmunk love. Oooh, baby!"

As much as Gordo did not want to respond, he could not help but laugh. "You are one sick dude, Greg, you know that?"

Greg laughed. "Yeah, I know. But you should see them! Humping away, really really fast. And the noise! _Cheep cheep! Chip chip! _Man! It's crazy!"

Greg was a bit too excited, remembering the wild chipmunk sex, and the little critter got spooked and ran away. Sighing, Greg stood up.

"Oh well," he lamented. "No wild fuckin' parties tonight, huh, Sixteen?"

He winked at Gordo, and once again, Gordo didn't know what to think.

"You know," Gordo said, taking a deep breath. "I think I really am kind of getting thirsty. Can we break into those beers now?"

"Soon," Greg promised. "We're almost there."


	9. Drunk

**Well, here we go again! Been a long time since I posted a chapter, so just to get you up to speed, Gordo and Greg are walking through the woods looking for a place to sit down and drink some beer…**

x

x

A few moments later, Greg stopped in the middle of the clearing and announced, "Okay, Chumley. NOW we're here."

Gordo looked around. He wasn't quite sure where "here" was. This place didn't look any different than where they'd already been.

"Here?" Gordo asked. "Right here?"

"Well, not _right_ here. Right here, over _there_,"' Greg said, pointing. "On that rock."

Gordo followed Greg's arm and saw that he was pointing towards a particular boulder, a large, flat rock that was almost glowing in the moonlight. Not twenty feet beyond the rock, the short grass was briefly interrupted by a long ribbon of railroad track. All at once, Gordo got it.

"Is this it?" he asked. "We walked all this way in the dark, just to sit on a rock and watch a train go by?"

"No," Greg said, annoyed that Gordo did not share his enthusiasm for this adventure. "We walked all this way in the dark to sit on the best damn rock in the whole damn forest, and drink ice cold beer and experience the passing of the loudest, longest and most incredible source of knock- you- off- your- feet power this side of a nuclear explosion."

Well, when Gordo heard it described _that_ way, it did sound kind of exciting.

Greg walked over to the rock and sat down, as easily as if he was taking a seat in the house of a longtime friend. He pulled off a beer, held it out at arms-length to Gordo and said, "Come on, kid. Let's drink."

Gordo took a deep breath and walked over to sit down on the rock beside Greg. The rock was unexpectedly comfortable, more like a table than a rock, very smooth, and just the right height. Gordo reached out and took the beer. It was still, in fact, quite cold.

Okay. Now was the moment when he had to be very careful not to embarrass himself. Somehow, Greg had taken it for granted that Gordo enjoyed a brewski on a regular basis. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Sure, he'd _tasted_ beer before, curiously sneaking it from his uncle's plastic cup at a family bar-b-que when he was a kid, and more recently, at Kate's out-of-control birthday party. The night of that party, he'd been trying to impress upon everyone (himself, most of all) that he was "bad," and drinking beer seemed like a good way to do that.

Unfortunately, on both occasions, the taste of beer had given him what Grandma Gordon referred to as "the lemon face." At the bar-b-que, he spit the beer into the grass. At Kate's party, he simply left the cup on an end table, where it was no doubt consumed by one of Amy's crazy friends, or more likely spilled onto the carpet.

Gordo was not really interested in trying beer again, but he knew there was no way out of this situation without having Greg once again call him a "wuss." So he took the offered can, said "Thanks," screwed up his courage...and sipped.

Surprisingly, it was not as bad as he'd remembered.

He took another sip. And then another. He looked across at Greg, who was enthusiastically chugging. Greg looked at him, noticed the polite sipping, and said, "Hey! I thought you told me you were thirsty!"

"I am!" Gordo said. "Yeah. I am. I'm just…"

But there was no sense in making excuses. He lifted the can, put it to his lips, and chugged, exactly as he had seen Greg doing.

Strangely, the beer now tasted quite good. He stopped, took a deep breath, and chugged again.

For a few minutes, they didn't talk, they only drank. Greg finished his first can, crushed it flat on the rock, and popped open a second. Despite the chugging, Gordo was still working on his first, and wondering why all of the sudden he could tolerate, and even _enjoy_, the taste of beer. He wondered if this meant he was growing up. Had something changed inside him? Hormones? Enzymes? Was it biological? Or merely psychological? Here he was, doing something he never imagined himself doing, drinking beer with a buddy…

And then he noticed the colors on the can. Budweiser. He was drinking Budweiser with a buddy. A Bud with a buddy. A Bud with a bud. He ran the words through his mind a few times, and let out an involuntary giggle.

Hearing this, Greg turned from contemplating the night sky, looked at Gordo and said, "You say something?"

Gordo shook his head a little. His brain swirled, and it felt like he was shaking his head a lot.

"Ready for another?" Greg offered.

Gordo coughed. "Soon."

Greg nodded, and went back to looking up into the sky. Gordo went back to his thoughts.

Bud…buddy…

"Hey," he heard himself saying, before he knew he was planning to speak, "this Budweiser…this is good beer, huh?"

"The best," Greg nodded. "The only kind my Dad will have in the house. Or the office."

"Some other beers…you know…taste like piss. In comparison, I mean."

That was good, right? Comparing lesser beers to piss? That was a guy kind of thing to say, right?

It wasn't until _after_ Gordo had started this conversation that he realized where he was going with it. He wanted to figure out why he was enjoying this beer, when he had not enjoyed beer before, and here was Greg, no doubt an expert on beer, sitting right beside him.

And Greg readily took the bait. "Shit!" he exclaimed. "Some of those German beers, and Irish beers, they call them 'ales' you know, and supposedly they're supposed to be far superior to our American beers…but SHIT! Give me an American beer any day of the week, over any of that European shit!"

"Yeah," Gordo agreed, nodding his head and marveling over how much it felt like his neck was a spring, or a slinky. "European…SHIT. This here…this…good beer."

"No fuckin' kidding," Greg agreed.

Slinky.

Or a spring.

It had only been a few minutes, and he had only just now made it down to the bottom of the can. Could it be that he was getting drunk already? So fast?

"Here," Greg said, and when Gordo got the spring in his neck under control, he looked over to see that Greg's arm was extended straight out at him, offering another icy red white and blue can.

"Thanks…bud…" Gordo said. He giggled again at his joke, but very quietly, so Greg wouldn't think he had gotten drunk on only one beer.

Gordo popped the can. This was fun. He was really starting to enjoy himself. He leaned back on the rock, took a deep breath, and felt some inexplicable tension going out of him. He vaguely remembered that there was something wrong, that something bad had happened, but for this moment at least, he couldn't remember what it was. Neither did he want to think about it. He only wanted to drink his second beer, and let this good feeling keep growing.

Greg seemed to be unusually interested in the sky, so after a while, Gordo looked up at it too, and said, "What are you looking at? Is there something up there? UFO?"

"Nah," Greg answered. "Just the stars."

Gordo let his eyes focus on the sky. "There sure are a lot of stars," he commented.

"That there are," Greg agreed. "But this is only a fraction of them. We've got a full moon tonight, so you're only seeing a fraction of the stars tonight. The light of the moon kind of drowns some of them out. You should see it, dude! On a night when there's a new moon---fuck! So many fuckin' stars."

Gordo thought about sharing some of his knowledge about stars which he had picked up in his science classes, but ultimately decided against it. One: because he knew he would sound like such a nerd. And two: because he felt it would sound better if he simply agreed with Greg, "Yeah. So many fuckin'g stars."

Greg laughed. "Dude! I don't think I've heard you cuss this much the whole time I've known you. Now all of the sudden it's 'shit' and 'fuck' left and right. Are you maybe getting a little…." he hiccupped and finished, "inebriated?"

Gordo shrugged. "A little. I guess."

Well…cool!" Greg exclaimed, punching him in the arm.

That punch nearly knocked Gordo over. He righted himself before he toppled, and to cover his embarrassment, he immediately said, "So…Greg…you seem to be, like, this big fan of nature, all of the sudden. Chipmunks…jasmine…stars…"

"Nah," Greg said. "Not really. I mean, I _am_, of course; it's nature for chrissakes, who doesn't like nature, right? But mainly I've developed this interest because, in general, chicks really dig it."

"Oh yeah…" Gordo said, as if he completely understood.

"I mean," Greg went on, "stars are nice and all, but what good are they, really, unless they make a girl get all mushy and wet and romantic so that she wants to make out with you? I mean, if you're not getting some, far as I'm concerned, all these stars are just kinda goin' to waste, aren't they?"

"Yeah…I guess…" Gordo said uneasily. All this talk about girls feeling mushy and wet was making him feel peculiar. Or maybe it was just the beer. Either way, he kept on drinking.

"So…" Greg said slowly, with a mischievous smile that Gordo could not see in the dark. "that being the case, Sixteen, all these stars just sorta going to waste…whatta ya say? You wanna make out?"

Gordo spit his beer. Rather, beer flew from his mouth, spraying in every direction. "WHAT??" he shrieked, his heart beating in his brain.

Greg doubled over, laughing hysterically. "That's what I love about you, Sixteen. You take everything so goddamn seriously. That's why I love messin' with you. You're so…intense. So freak-out-able. Even when you're getting sloshed, you're still so serious."

Gordo didn't know what to say. His head was spinning. He couldn't tell if Greg was insulting him, or flirting with him. _Oh, God!_ This was so weird!

"Chill, dude," Greg said finally, when he could see how thrown Gordo was. "Here, have another beer. You need to relax."

"I'm not ready yet for another," Gordo said. "I'm still working on this one. So when does this train come by, anyway?" he added quickly, wanting to change the topic away from girls and beer and making out and anything else uncomfortable that Greg might want to talk about.

"No telling," Greg said. "I've tried to pin down the schedule many times, but the best I can figure is that something as big and powerful as a freight train just comes and goes whenever it damn well pleases."

It had been the right question to ask, because it got Greg talking about trains, and machinery and engineering, which led him into talking about UCLA, where he intended to major in Engineering. Up till this point, Gordo had only thought of Greg as a "jock," the popular good-looking guy who got all the girls. The kind of guy Gordo had made a habit of hating. It shocked him now to realize that in addition to being popular, good-looking and athletic, Greg was also apparently pretty smart. Maybe almost as smart as Gordo himself.

Greg went on happily talking about UCLA and the College of Engineering and his plans to go on to grad school and do research, something about propulsion engines. At least that's what Gordo thought he said. He wasn't really listening very well at this point, because his thoughts were otherwise occupied. He didn't know if he should feel hopeful…or threatened. On the one hand, it struck Gordo that it was absolutely not fair, that someone with all of Greg's obvious gifts should _also_ be smart. On the other hand, he wondered if that meant there was yet hope for him. After all, Greg thought Gordo had a chance to make the baseball team at Hillridge High. Was it possible that "jock" could someday be used to describe nerdy little Gordo? And of course, Greg had mentioned on more than one occasion that girls really went for guys that had crazy curly hair like Gordo's. Might the terms "good-looking" and "babe magnet" also someday be added to his personal resumé?

Then, all at once it hit him. He remembered what it was that had gone wrong, the bad thing he was trying to keep from thinking about. Miranda had laughed at him. Snorted. He was not 'boyfriend material.' And Lizzie was not interested in him. Not at all.

A few moments ago, the beer had him feeling good. Now, just as quickly, he felt himself spiraling downward into a pit of depression. He thought people drank to forget their troubles. With two full beers inside him, he came to the conclusion that drinking only intensified troubles, made them seem bigger and much worse than they actually were. Or at least…than he _thought_ they were. There was no way to tell now, was there? He had let Greg whisk him off into the forest so quickly, filling him with beer, he could barely remember what it was supposed to feel like when one of the people who knew you best, someone whose opinion you really should consider and respect, let slip that they thought you were a total loser.

"And so…like…if you watch very carefully, just beyond the tracks," Gordo heard Greg saying, "you might see a Grizzly."

"What?" Gordo asked absently, confused.

"A Grizzly," Greg repeated. "I said we might be lucky enough to see a Grizzly."

"What?!" Gordo repeated, this time in alarm. "A Grizzly…what? A Grizzly Bear?"

The present moment zoomed back up and smacked Gordo in the face. He jumped off the rock, and began to spin around, checking in all directions for approaching Grizzly Bears. He held out his empty beer can, his only weapon, ready to throw it at any attacking bears.

Once again, Greg was laughing. "Oh, man!" he said. "I'm sorry, Sixteen. I just can't help myself. It's so easy! You're so predictable."

For a moment Gordo's head was spinning with the sudden movements he had just made. His stomach also felt upset. But that passed quickly. And now he was mad. Greg was making fun of him. Again. He felt insulted, and he wasn't going to sit still for this anymore.

"I am NOT predictable," Gordo shot back.

"Dude," Greg said apologetically. "You ARE. But I said I'm sorry. I don't mean anything bad by it. I'm just teasing you."

"Well, stop teasing me, alright?" Gordo said crossly.

"I will," Greg said, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "I will. I promise. No more. I promise. Just come sit down, okay?'

Gordo hesitated, swaying. He felt the steam going out of him. Simply standing up, at this point, took so much effort. "So then," he said calmly. "There are no Grizzlies? You were just making it up?"

"I was just making it up," Greg assured. "Sit down already."

Gordo sighed and sat. But he wouldn't look at Greg, and he wouldn't talk to him.

"Oh come on!" Greg moaned. "Don't be that way! Still friends?"

Gordo frowned.

"Davey…"

"It's not my fault I'm a city kid," Gordo defended himself, suddenly and vehemently. "It's not my fault I don't know these things."

"No, it's not," Greg placated him.

"I never went camping when I was a kid," Gordo went on. "My dad never took me camping. He never played ball with me. We never did any of that 'guy' stuff together. His idea of 'family fun' was a trip to the art museum. Once we went to the Museum of Natural History. And we've watched a lot of documentaries on TV, and some of them were nature documentaries, but that's as much experience as I've had with all this nature crap."

"And that's not necessarily a bad thing," Greg said, trying to get back on his good side. "And besides which, Davey, you gotta admit---"

"And don't call me Davey!" Gordo exploded. "I hate that name! It sounds like a girl's name! Don't call me that."

"Okay. Okay, I'm sorry," Greg said gently.

"I mean, " Gordo went on, "My dad doesn't even _drink_ beer, never mind let me drink it. Now I ask you: what kind of dad is that? The kind that doesn't drink beer?"

"As for the beer drinking," Greg questioned cautiously, "how's that that going for you? You feelin' okay?"

"I'm feeling fine," Gordo lied. "I'm feeling just…just…"

"Cos, before, I thought maybe you were falling asleep. You were so quiet, I wasn't even sure you were still listening to me. That's why I popped out with that stuff about the Grizzly Bears. Just to check if you were listening to me."

"I was listening," Gordo said. "I was just…having a little trouble…concentrating."

Greg took a deep breath. "Thinking of something else?"

"Yeah," Gordo admitted.

"Maybe…that phone call you got earlier?"

"You mean the one you told me I wouldn't have to talk about?"

"Yeah, that one," Greg said. They sat quietly for a moment, the subject of the phone call hanging between them.

"You want to talk about it now?" Greg asked.

Gordo put his head in his hands. He didn't want to talk about it. At all. Ever. To anyone. He especially didn't want to have to talk about it with Greg, thus admitting that he was a total failure to this super-cool guy that, for some reason, he felt unreasonably compelled to impress. Yet as much as Gordo wanted to impress Greg, on some level, he felt pretty sure that, despite the constant flattering, Greg already suspected the worst about him.

_So_…Gordo reasoned (and even as he did, he felt proud of himself for still being able to reason, despite how drunk he apparently was), if Greg already knew he was a total failure, what would it matter to talk about it? And it might feel good, to get all this off his chest. In fact, the more Gordo sat there, silently mulling, the more certain he felt that he didn't want to have to suffer in silence anymore. Lizzie was lost to him. And he seriously doubted things could ever be the same between him and Miranda again either. Thus he would be entering high school, friendless, and alone. A total loser.

As the beer swirled in his head, Gordo felt himself spiraling downwards again. He didn't want to sink into the pit. He didn't want to be alone. He looked up, and saw Greg looking at him intently. They just looked at each other for a moment, then Greg reached behind him, and pulled out the last two beers. He popped one for himself, then popped the other for Gordo.

"Come on," he said, handing Gordo the beer. "One more. We drink together. And if you want, you can talk. Or not. Your choice. But let's drink."

Gordo nodded. As miserable as he felt, he should have felt repelled by the sight of that third can of beer. But Greg offered it in friendship, and with no strings attached. So he reached out and took it, and chugged it, and it stung his throat going down, but it also felt good.

Gordo took a deep breath and smelled the night blooming jasmine. He listened, and he could hear the crickets singing. He could also hear something that sounded like it might be another chipmunk, in the bushes, not too far away, and an owl hooting in the distance. But there was no sound of Grizzly Bears, and no sound yet on the train tracks. He and Greg were likely to be here for quite a while longer.

Gordo sighed.

"It was Miranda," he said quietly.

"On the phone?"

Gordo nodded.

Greg nodded too. "Okay….Miranda," he said. He nodded some more, then suddenly asked, "Who's Miranda?"

There was no going back now.


	10. The Train Cometh

**Now that school is over, I hope to have more time to work on this story. Maybe I can get a few more chapters out over the holidays. Here's the next. Hope you enjoy it. bgm**

Gordo began to tell all. He started with tales of Miranda, his longtime friendship with both her and Lizzie. He explained that Miranda had gone to Mexico with her family earlier this summer, while he and Lizzie went to Rome on a class trip. He told Greg everything about the trip, up to and including the kiss on the rooftop, but he neglected to mention how he had completely blown the opportunity to take advantage of this marvelous opportunity.

Gordo heard himself censoring himself on this point, then rushing through to the next part of the story, so as not to give Greg time to think and ask questions like, "Dude! Did you kiss her back? What was that like?" Gordo felt amazed that though he was clearly quite drunk, a separate part of him was able to stand back and listen to his drunk self revealing things his sober self might never feel comfortable talking about, especially to someone like Greg. He knew his sober "censoring self" still continued to protect him, and so he felt free to go on.

He told Greg next about tonight's phone conversation with Miranda, and how it was Miranda's opinion that Lizzie was never going to consider him boyfriend material, since she was far too used to thinking of him as a friend. His "censoring self" prevented him from mentioning to Greg that he feared he might never be considered boyfriend material by _any_ girl, that he had gotten so good at being the "guy friend" that he was destined to never be able to pass over into being the "boyfriend." That would have been way too personal, way too humiliating to admit. Especially to someone like Greg. So for the moment, his censoring self was able to convince his drunken self to keep this confession completely about the matter at hand: his anxious fears that he and Lizzie might never be anything more than "just friends."

Greg was a good listener. He had turned himself sideways on the rock, giving Gordo his full attention, nodding or grunting now and then to show he was still listening. But he saved his comments to the end. Gordo finished up with the mournful fact that Lizzie had not even bothered to tell her best friend Miranda about the rooftop kiss in Rome. "I don't even rate a mention in the 'Oh, by the way' category," Gordo lamented. "I just don't see how there's any hope for me with Lizzie at this point."

Gordo ended with a sigh. And now that he had clearly said all he intended to say on the matter, Greg came back to life, ready to provide his expert commentary.

"Dude!" he marveled. "You don't know a whole lot about girls, do you?"

Gordo's first impulse was to be offended. After all, up till only a few minutes ago, he had put so much effort into trying to make Greg believe that he was only inches away from bagging the luscious Lizzie. Then his mind caught up with him, and he realized this conversation kind of wiped all that out, didn't it? So he sighed and admitted, "Well…I guess not. Not as much as I wish I knew, anyway."

Greg repositioned himself on the rock, warmed to the topic and clearly getting ready to speak. "There are several things going on here, Sixteen, that I don't think you've considered yet, otherwise you wouldn't be so bummed out."

"You mean you see how something good could come out of all of this?" Gordo asked hopefully.

"Most definitely, dude!"

Gordo downed the last of his beer, tilting his head back so far that his head swam in an intense surge of vertigo, and he felt certain he was going to fall right off this rock. He managed to lay down flat without bumping his head, and after a brief moment of resettling in his brain, he felt able to go on.

"Well…spill!" he commanded Greg, as he focused on the stars above. "Don't keep me in suspense, dude!"

Greg smiled quickly at Gordo's use of "dude," then went right to it. "Well, first of all," he suggested, "do you think there's any chance that Miranda has the hots for you?"

Gordo laughed. No, he snorted. Actually, it was the exact same noise Mirnda had made with him on the phone earlier this evening. His sober self wanted to stop and consider what this might mean, but his drunk and talkative self replied immediately, "No way, man!"

"Are you sure?" Greg asked.

Gordo laughed again. "I sincerely doubt it. I mean…that would be the biggest surprise ever. I give that one a great big giant N-O."

"Cos if she did, that would explain a lot," Greg said. "Girls will do that sometimes, you know. They'll try to put you off your liking one of their friends, cos secretly they're interested in you."

"Not happening," Gordo assured. "Let's move on. You said there were several different things that might be going on here."

"Okay, how about this?" Greg suggested. "Is there any way that maybe Lizzie's got it in _her_ head that Miranda's got the hots for you? I know you said that's not the way it is, but sometimes girls get crazy ideas in their heads, ideas that have nothing to do with reality, and if that were the case, and Lizzie really wanted you for herself, but thought Miranda did _too_---and if she, Lizzie, thought you were that cool, it might be hard for her to imagine that every other girl in the world wasn't having the same thoughts about you---and then of course she wouldn't tell Miranda about liking you, cos she might be afraid Miranda would try to slip in ahead of her and snag you for herself. So Lizzie might just be playing it cool."

Gordo was highly flattered that Greg was seriously entertaining this fantasy where so many girls were interested in him. Unfortunately, he had to nip this one in the bud too.

"I don't think that's the case either," he said sadly. "Got anything else?"

"One more," Greg said. "But it certainly could explain a lot. Would you say Lizzie is a…sentimental type of girl?"

"Is she!" Gordo exclaimed. "You bet. For one thing---and she'd kill me if she knew I was telling you this---but she's got this stuffed animal, I think it's a pig, that she's had like…like forever, and she still sleeps with it."

"Yeah, girls go for shit like that," Greg agreed, nodding.

"And one time," Gordo remembered suddenly, "she felt bad for her dad, cos he was feeling all left out of her life, so she invited him to go bowling with us."

"Sentimental," Greg pronounced.

"And another time," Gordo went on, kind of smiling as he remembered, "she got the idea in her head that she was gonna save the whole world, all by herself. She got on this big kick about recycling, and vega---vega----not eating meat, and some other…shit I can't remember right now. But she was all…all…she was so INTENSE."

"Oh man!" Greg said, laying back on the rock beside Gordo. "I love it when girls get intense. They're so cute when they're intense."

"Yeah," Gordo sighed, thinking of Lizzie being intense and feeling intensely tingly in those thoughts. "...so cute…"

They laid back on the rock together, looking up at the stars, listening to the chipmunks, and for a moment, Gordo started to feel better. And then, suddenly, Greg started to speak again, and what he said made Gordo feel better than he had all night.

"Well then," Greg said, staring up into the sky, "what might be happening here, the reason why Lizzie didn't say anything to Miranda about your kiss, is not because it didn't mean anything to her, but because it meant SO VERY MUCH to her, that she either a: didn't know how to talk about it, without getting all mushy and weepy, or 2: she just wants to kind of keep this 'close to her heart' for a little while, before she shares it with anyone. Know what I mean?"

"I think I do," Gordo said.

"Or c:" Greg went on, "she doesn't want to talk about it with anyone else until she gets a chance to talk with you first, and make sure you're really interested in her. Cos you know, it would be really embarrassing for her to tell her friend Miranda that there was this kiss, and she was hoping something was going to come of it, and then somehow, when she sees you again, she finds out she was mistaken, and you're not really interested in her at all. I mean, that would be embarrassing, wouldn't it? Putting herself out there like that, and then it turns out that you don't actually want to get together with her. That might just be too embarrassing, so maybe she's waiting to see you again, to talk to you again. Maybe she's waiting for you, dude."

"Yeah!" Gordo said, raising himself up on his elbow. "Greg! Dude! Maybe you're right!"

Greg smiled and also got up on his elbow, looking at Gordo. "When it comes to chicks, Sixteen," he announced, "I'm almost always right."

Gordo sat up. He felt a swaying sensation, but he didn't care. Suddenly he was elated. Everything Greg had said made so much sense.

"So..much..sense…" he said out loud. "Maybe Lizzie is…maybe she's just like me…and why wouldn't she be? Maybe she's just a little uncertain…"

"I mean," Greg went on, "have you ever actually just TOLD her how you feel?"

"You mean with words? You mean---?"

Greg laughed. "Yeah, with WORDS, dude! Have you ever told her?"

"Well…no, not actually," Gordo was ashamed to admit.

"A little shy?" Greg suggested, and Gordo could not see the amused grin on his face.

"Well…you know how it is," Gordo said. "You don't want to say anything, cos what if…what if…"

"What if the other person doesn't feel the same way? Yeah, I know how that is," Greg said suddenly, heavily. "Been there myself."

"You have?" Gordo asked in amazement. It was difficult to imagine there might be anyone Greg was interested in who would not want to return the affection.

"Yeah," Greg said, and his voice now sounded even heavier than before. "There was…someone, once. It was a few years ago, I was your age, maybe a little younger, and I was just…just, you know, starting to figure things out. I was maybe still a little confused, but…but there was this…"

He paused, and sighed. Obviously this was difficult for him. Gordo sat up all the way, listening.

"There was someone," Greg went on slowly. "And I'd just about managed to convince myself that I could not possibly go on living without letting them know how I felt. I knew it was risky. Really risky. It was very scary. I don't think I'd ever been more scared in my life. I had no idea what I was doing, I only knew I couldn't stay silent any longer. So…so…"

Gordo felt his heart beating very fast. He knew exactly how this was, exactly how Greg felt, and was so anxious to find out how this had all turned out for him.

"So somehow," Greg said. "I came out and said it. Poured my heart out completely. And…and it was worse than just being rejected, it was…absolute…total…_ridicule_..."

"No!" Gordo cried. This was not the conclusion he had been hoping for.

But "Oh, yes," Greg said. "It was the biggest disaster you could possibly imagine. And even now, years later, when I think about it, it still hurts, you know?"

"Man, this is not making me feel better," Gordo said miserably.

"But that's not the end of the story!" Greg promised.

"You mean it worked out? Eventually?"

"With this person? No. But after a while I picked myself up, got out of my hole, found someone else who…you know, looked interesting. And when the time came that I began asking myself 'Am I going to say anything? Am I going to risk all that humiliation all over again?', well, I was a little older, a little wiser this time. I could read the signs better. And besides, when I looked back on what had happened the first time, I decided 'It can't possibly be any WORSE,' so I went for it."

"And?" Gordo asked expectantly.

Greg smiled nostalgically. "And," he informed, "this time it worked out well. In fact, it worked out very…_very_ well."

"Man…" Gordo breathed.

"So the point of my story," Greg concluded, "I just want you to know, that even if it doesn't work out for you and Lizzie---but I think it will, dude, I have this gut feeling it will---but even if it doesn't, there'll be someone else. Right around the bend."

"I don't want anyone else," Gordo said.

"I know you don't. And I know what that feels like. But I can tell you this much: no matter what bad thing you think might happen by coming right out and telling her how you feel, it would be a thousand per cent _worse _if you never said anything to her, and let your chance slip away. You could be kicking yourself for the rest of your life. Dude! You gotta say something to her."

"Yeah, I know," Gordo said. He felt himself filled with hope and trepidation and expectation and fear, all at the same time.

"So you promise me, Sixteen? Promise me you're gonna say something to Lizzie when you get back?"

"Yeah," Gordo said, taking a deep breath. "I promise." He hoped this was not just the beer talking. He hoped he would feel the same way in the morning, still have the same conviction.

"Good," Greg said. "Cos I would hate to think of you missing out on some good lovin.' A cutie like you, Sixteen, you've got some good lovin' comin' your way. You just need to get the ball rolling, get this show on the road, know what I mean?"

Gordo felt dazed. Had Greg just called him a 'cutie'?

He barely had time to think about it, when suddenly Greg grabbed his arm.

"What?!" Gordo cried out in alarm.

"Listen!" Greg said.

Gordo sat motionless, straining his ears. What now? A Grizzly Bear after all?

"Train!" Greg announced, jumping up. "Come on!"

"Come on where?" Gordo questioned, jumping up and following him.

Greg took them closer to the tracks. He got right up to the tracks, but Gordo held back a few feet.

Greg looked back at him. "What's wrong?"

"I think this is probably close enough," Gordo said warily.

Greg rolled his eyes. "Baby!" he scolded. "Don't be such a wuss!"

"I'm not a wuss!" Gordo said, and he felt the anger rising again. "Why are you always calling me that? Just cos I'm being careful, just cos I don't want to get run over by a goddamn train, that makes me a wuss?"

"Okay, suit yourself," Greg said with a shrug. "But you're not going to get the full effect if you---"

"Fuck!" Gordo announced as he stomped up to close the few feet that separated him from Greg. He felt each stomp pounding inside his heart, as the rattling on the tracks got closer and closer. He turned his head and could see the light, illuminating every blade of grass. He was as close as Greg was, and when he looked down into the grass, he could see his own sneaker beside Greg's, and then, just so there would be no doubt in Greg's mind that he was not a "wuss," he moved his sneaker, took one step closer even closer to the train---

Fuck!" Greg echoed, grabbing Gordo, pulling him back.

The train was upon them, passing them, the sheer force of it threatening to topple them over. Gordo felt quite sure that if Greg had not enveloped him in his arms, the power of the wind surrounding the train, combined with own unsteady beer feet would surely have him tumbling into the tracks. And as close as they were, there was no margin of error, no room to make even the slightest movement.

But Greg was there, holding him, steadying him, and after a few breaths, Gordo began to feel more confident, exhilarated by these intense and unusual sensations. Each sensation built upon the other, until finally he got up the nerve to raise his left arm, reaching out in wonder towards the train, wanting to touch it, just wanting to know what it would feel like to touch something that was moving by at---

Greg pulled him suddenly to the ground.

"What are you, fucking nuts?" he cried, holding Gordo to the ground. " You can't touch a moving train, you moron!"

"Why not?" Gordo asked, closing his eyes, waiting for his jostled brain to settle.

"Why not?" Greg repeated. "Why not? Don't you like your fingers? Do you want to keep your arm? Do you really not care if---?"

But Greg stopped himself, mid-sentence, staring down at Gordo with wide, frightened eyes. "Oh my God!" he cried, throwing himself on top of Gordo. "You scared the shit out of me, Davey!"

"DON'T call me Davey," Gordo said heavily, unable to move. "And by the way," he added. "Don't ever call me a wuss again, either, all right?"

"You idiot!" Greg exclaimed. "I thought I was going to lose you!"

Gordo struggled under the weight of Greg's body. "Still here," he announced. "Oh, and by the way…" he added uncomfortably, "Greg…dude…if you don't mind...will you please... _get the hell off me_?"


	11. Teasing

**Thank God summer is finally here and school is out and now at last I'll have some time to pick up where I left off in this story!! Remember, reviews are always welcome. Thanks! bgm  
**

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Greg did not get off of Gordo right away. He lay on top of him a few moments more, breathing heavily as it took time for the enormity of the narrowly averted danger to get past him. In the distance they could hear the train whistle, traveling further and further away from them. A few moments more, and all they could hear were the crickets, and their own breathing.

Gordo tried once more to push Greg off him, but to no avail. He was beginning to feel highly uncomfortable. He was still drunk as a skunk, his head spinning, his stomach churning, but all his senses were tunneled in on Greg: the smell of beer on the older boy's breath, mixed with the heady aroma of sweat (the combination which was, surprisingly to Gordo, not unpleasant). He was painfully aware of the hardness of every part of Greg's muscular body, pressing against his own scrawny body. And most of all, he was amazed by the look in his bright eyes, shining in the moonlight, which was only now slowly turning from terrified concern to something much more playful.

"Uh…Greg…" Gordo repeated helplessly.

Greg smiled with one side of his mouth only. "Fuck! Dude!" he exclaimed, finally rolling off to the side. "Do you have a Death Wish, or what?"

Gordo breathed a sigh of relief, as he felt the air rushing back into his lungs. "No!" he exclaimed. "Of course not! I just…I wanted…Look. Don't ever call me a wuss again, okay?"

"I won't!" Greg promised, leaning on his elbow in the grass beside Gordo, gazing at him with something new in his eyes.

_Admiration?_ Gordo wondered.

They were laying side by side in the grass, looking at each other for what felt, to Gordo, like a very long time. Once again, that vague feeling of discomfort began to creep in. Gordo looked up into the sky, at all the stars. Man, there were a lot of stars! He remembered Greg saying something about girls and stars and getting aroused…so he looked away. He didn't want to think about getting aroused. But his eyes went back to Greg, and that felt just as uncomfortable as thoughts of getting aroused. So he closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, and announced, "Fuck! Dude! I swear! I am so…I am so…"

"So… what?" he heard Greg ask in the middle of the stillness of this night.

"I am so…so…drucken…fruckin'…_fuck_…"

Greg laughed. To Gordo, it almost sounded like a giggle.

"You're…_what?_"

"Frunk," Gordo qualified, stumbling over his words. No, that wasn't right, so, determined to get it right, he repeated, "Druck. I mean…fuck! _Fuck!_ I mean, I am so…drunkin' fuck!"

Greg lay back in the grass, laughing his ass off. "You are, dude! You are so…what did you say?…_drunkin' fuck!_"

"I am," Gordo agreed, now beginning to laugh himself. "I'm fuckin'…druckin'….oh, fuck…" he concluded.

He was beyond words now, as he heard Greg, in the grass beside him, burst into a fresh bout of giggles, and he himself burst into giggles as well, which hurt his head immensely, but also felt so good.

"Fuck…" Greg said, when he could speak.

"Fuck…" Gordo echoed, feeling totally drained.

As their giggles subsided, they lay in the grass, side by side, looking up at the stars, catching their breaths.

"Fuck!" Greg proclaimed. "Dude! Davey! You are so much fuckin' fun to be with when you're drunk!"

He rolled over, leaning on his elbow once again, and looked down at Gordo. In a few moments, he smiled and announced, "I think I ought to get you drunk more often."

Gordo looked up at him, and at that moment, the moon came out from behind a cloud, illuminating Greg's face, and in his drunken stupor Gordo was suddenly and acutely aware of how really beautiful Greg was, how good-looking, how handsome…He was like a work of art, like one of those Greek gods or something. And like one of those gods, he was strong, and manly, and athletic, and self-assured, and confident---in short, everything that Gordo himself was not.

And in that moment, Gordo felt immeasurably disappointed in himself for not being even a fraction of the guy that Greg was, and for not being all that he wished himself to be. But in the next moment---and the rapid succession of these thoughts caused his head to spin even more wildly---all these sad and self-depreciating thoughts were tempered by the fact that for some crazy reason, which Gordo himself did not quite understand, this perfect person actually seemed to enjoy spending time with him.

There was friendship and admiration in these thoughts, but also mixed in with his drunken observations was the realization that they had just done something crazy and dangerous together. That made Gordo feel closer to Greg than anything else that had happened so far. For the first time in his life he was experiencing the camaraderie of drinking buddies, and he liked the way that felt.

And something else was happening too, something else that he thought he probably, usually liked: a vaguely familiar pressure, just beginning to manifest itself below the belt. He was too drunk at the moment to understand it or put a name to it, and his earlier fears about getting aroused had been utterly evaporated in their recent fit of giggles. Gordo also failed to realize that anything that felt even dimly akin to arousal at this point could not be a good thing to be happening now. So for the moment, it did not frighten him as much as it should have.

He was stuck on Greg's face, and unable to speak. But after a moment, Greg picked up the conversation again with a smirky, "So…is it true, Sixteen? You've never been drunk before?"

"No. I haven't. Not really," Gordo admitted simply.

"So I don't suppose you've ever smoked pot either."

"No, I haven't," Gordo said, amazed at how readily he was admitting his innocence. Usually, he felt embarrassed by his lack of experience. Being drunk, he decided, was quite liberating.

"Dude! You don't know what you're missing!" Greg exclaimed.

"I guess I'd like to try it one day," Gordo admitted.

Greg grinned down at him. "I bet you'd be fun when you're stoned, too."

At that very moment, Gordo was completely convinced that getting stoned with Greg would be the most awesome thing in the world to do. He wanted to ask if they could do that together sometime, but he didn't know how to find the words, he couldn't think of the words, and then Greg was talking again.

"And you told me yourself you never kissed a girl," he said, eyeing him carefully in the moonlight.

Gordo opened his mouth to protest. "No, wait…wait…that's not true. I…did. I…I kissed Lizzie.. once…"

It felt weird to be thinking of Lizzie, when he was drunk like this, and feeling so uninhibited.

But before he could dwell on her for too long, Greg was saying, "Yeah, but that wasn't a real kiss, was it? I mean, you didn't _French_ her or anything, did you?"

"No!" Gordo exclaimed.

"Did you give her even the tiniest bit of tongue?"

"No! I was a gently…a gentleman."

"But you wanted to, didn't you?" Greg asked with a big smile. "You wanted to give her the tongue. And you wanted to feel her up while you were doing it too, right? I'll bet you wanted to get your hands inside her shirt, inside her bra, wrapped around her titties, squeezing her nipples. I know you wanted to do that, right?"

Gordo was now aware that the vague sensation he'd noticed earlier was now increasing. And he suddenly remembered what it was. But he couldn't speak.

"Have you ever?" Greg asked.

"Ever.. .what?" His head was spinning more.

"Have you ever felt up a girl? Have you ever squeezed the sweet little teenage girl titties?"

Gordo stared at him, and oddly, the more awakened he felt below, the more his usual sense of inhibition was revived. Somehow, he felt all this talk about titties could not end well.

But Greg insisted on going on with his theme. "Have you ever sucked on a girl's nipples?" he asked excitedly, his eyes shining in the moonlight. "Have you ever put your hands down her panties and stuck your fingers deep inside her---"

"No! No! NO!" Gordo exclaimed. This was too much, too fast. "Why are you asking me all this?" he demanded.

"'Cos it's fun," Greg said simply, "watching you squirm." He smiled as he watched Gord squirm, then picked up again with, "I don't suppose you've ever eaten pussy?"

"No. Stop it," Gordo said firmly. "You know I haven't."

"Ever get a blow job?" Greg asked, still grinning down at him.

Gordo just looked at him blankly.

"Ever _give_ a blow job?" Greg added.

At this point, the blankness went out of Gordo's face, and he felt his blood run cold. This night had just passed into something extremely weird, and a little scary.

But after a moment of uncomfortable silence, Greg was suddenly apologizing, "I'm sorry. I've gone too far, haven't I? I'm just messing with you, you know that, Sixteen, don't you? It's just cos…cos…you're such a…_virgin._ In every way!"

Yeah, Gordo knew he was a virgin. He didn't need anyone to throw it right back in his face. Feeling miserable, he rolled over, away from Greg, suddenly tired of this game.

"No, wait…wait…come back here," Greg said, pulling him back. "I'm sorry, Davey. I really am. I don't mean anything bad by it."

Gordo tried once again to roll away to the other side, so he wouldn't have to look at Greg, but Greg was holding him down by one shoulder, so he couldn't move_. Just as well,_ Gordo figured. The rolling the first time had brought on a bout of nausea. He didn't want to feel that again, on top of everything else he was feeling.

But because Greg had him virtually pinned down, the only escape he could manage was to close his eyes. Still, he heard Greg's words, piercing the silence of the depth of this crazy night. His voice was practically in Gordo's ear, practically buzzing in his ear.

"You got to understand something about me," Greg said with a good deal of excitement in his voice. "Bein' a virgin…to me, that's not a _bad _thing…that's a good thing! That's an exciting thing! I love virgins! When you're a virgin, everything good is ahead of you. You got all this good stuff to look forward to. The not knowing…and getting to learn all kinds of new stuff…It's fuckin' cool, isn't it? To get to do something you've never done before? Don't you feel that way? God! Sometimes I wish I could be a virgin again. I mean, the whole idea of virgins just fuckin' turns me on, dude! Know what I mean?"

Gordo didn't really know what Greg meant, but on some level it scared him, and he didn't have enough presence of mind at the moment to understand why.

Then, five seconds after Greg's voice stopped buzzing in his ear, Gordo became aware that his companion was gone from his side. Popping his eyes open, the emptiness in the grass beside him confirmed this. He felt so alone, out here in the middle of nowhere, underneath a million stars…but then his eyes traveled, and not very far, and he saw Greg was still here with him, standing up, only a few feet away, the tall frame of his body silhouetted against the train tracks. In the moonlight Gordo was just able to see the back of Greg's tee shirt as he hunched his shoulders, and then there was that sound…

Zip…

And a moment later, Greg had slipped his jeans down to his thighs, and Gordo could clearly see his smooth tight buttocks, shining in the moonlight.

"What the hell are you DOING!?" Gordo all but screamed.

Was it not bad enough that this boy has been teasing Gordo all night with talk of sex and kissing and titties and every other kind of thing that was threatening to cause such an unwanted physical reaction in his young body? And now he was teasing him with a clear view of his naked backside?

But no, Gordo thought, no. Not teasing. This wasn't teasing, he told himself. Because it couldn't be teasing unless this was something he wanted to see, something he was hoping to see, and God knows, as God was his witness, he would swear on a stack of Bibles, he had no desire whatsoever to look at another guy's ass---

And yet here it was, another guy's ass, and a good-looking ass at that, and try as he might, Gordo could not help but look. This was bad. But still not bad enough. Because then, it got worse. Much worse.

When Greg heard Gordo's frantic cry, he turned, and now Gordo's had a full frontal view of Greg in all his glory as he stood tall in the moonlight, his hand on his cock.

_Oh crap!_ Gordo panicked. _ He's not doing what I think he's doing, is he? He's not...playing with himself, is he? He's not getting ready to…_

"Chill!" Greg said, giving Gordo a quizzical look. "All that fuckin' beer! I gotta take a leak."

"Like that!?" Gordo exclaimed.

"Like what?" Greg asked innocently.

"With your…with…with _everything _hanging out…!"

Now even though there were a lot of things Gordo didn't know about how guys acted when they were hanging out with each other, he had been in enough public restrooms and locker rooms to know that they didn't drop their drawers to their thighs just to take a leak. Was Greg still messing with him, still trying to make him squirm? Well, if so, it was working. He was squirming.

But Greg had an answer for everything. "Oh, man! Out here in the cool night air, with the breeze blowing all around my balls…it feels fuckin' awesome! You should try it some time."

"No, thanks…" Gordo mumbled, but Greg didn't hear him, because by that time he had begun to pee, and he kept on peeing for quite some time, into the grass, his head lifted up to the starry sky as he moaned a mighty sigh of physical relief.

"Oh, man…dude…you know what they say: When you gotta go…you gotta go…"

Gordo lay in the grass, feeling unbearably dizzy every time he closed his eyes, and yet, if he opened them, he could not keep himself from looking where he did not want to look. At least Greg, with his head tilted back, seemed to have his eyes closed, and could not see that Gordo was looking at him. He was taking a long piss, a very long piss, and as the moments wore on, broken only by Greg's breathy moans of relief, Gordo felt his heart in his chest slowly returning to a more normal beat. And at last, with the realization that no one was watching him and no one would ever know, he gave himself permission to look.

He looked up and down Greg's body, amazed at the definition in his abs, and in his thighs. He truly was like one of those Greek gods. But then of course his eyes got stuck between Greg's abs and thighs on the moonlit image of his major piece of anatomy, dangling, yet seemingly semi-erect, busy at work. It was the…biggest, best-looking cock Gordo had ever seen. Not that he'd seen a lot. In those locker rooms and public restrooms he had mostly tried not to look. So mostly he was comparing it to his own.

There was, of course, no comparison.

He found himself wondering about the size of it. What did it mean? Was he erect? Was this as big as it got? Could he go bigger, longer? Gordo hoped so. Not because he wanted to see that, but because he desperately needed to believe that as much width and girth as he was seeing now had nothing to do with an erection, that Greg was not having an erection simply by being here with _him. _

Several things had been said over the past few days, and tonight especially, that had Gordo wondering, and he needed to believe that if he had any suspicions about Greg, they were based only on his own misinterpretation of how guys, real guys, talked to each other. Of course, he didn't know anything about how real guys talked to each other, but somewhere in the back of his mind he had a vague idea that real guys had no problem taking a leak in front of each other, and real guys didn't freak out over seeing each other's penises. So this was probably nothing more than "real guy" stuff. Right?

He felt better.

But he kept looking.

And then Greg finished, took a deep breath and brought his face down from the sky. He opened his eyes and asked, "How about you, dude? You gotta go?"

Being inebriated was slowing Gordo's reaction time, and he realized too late that Greg had caught him looking. He glanced away then as quick as he could manage, but that looked suspicious, he felt sure, so he looked back, trying very hard to keep his eyes up near Greg's face, and not…_there…_

"Uh..no, I'm good. Thanks," Gordo said in what he hoped was his most casual voice, but it was hard to sound casual when he was feeling nervous and shameful and nauseous, all at the same time.

Greg was giving him that crooked smile again, so Gordo knew that he had been found out, at least to some degree. So…what was Greg thinking about him now? Oh, God! If he'd caught him looking, he couldn't possibly be thinking that…that…

"You sure?" Greg asked. "Cos you'll feel a lot better if you let it out. Whenever you're holding something in, it always feels a lot better when you let it out, don't'cha think?"

And now Gordo was feeling truly frantic again. Not only because he wondered and worried what Greg must be thinking of him, and what exactly he was meant by "holding something in" and "letting something out." But also, on some level, he wondered and worried about himself, about why he could not keep his eyes off the naked parts of Greg's body. And why…why…_why_…did Greg continue to stand there like that, with his _thing_ hanging out, catching the gentle night breeze, and why…why…_why_… was he now reaching for it again with his hand, seeming it stroke it…

It was too much for Gordo. He knew he had to get out of here. He sat up. He meant to stand up, he meant to get out of here. But the moment he sat up, the nausea that had been threatening him all night mixed with his sudden sexual panic, and manifested itself in an all-out vomiting fit.

Luckily, he had had the sense to lean to the right when he felt it coming on, so not only did it land in the grass beside him, rather than all over his shirt, but he also deposited his vomit on the far side of where Greg could see what was going on. He made some retching noises and got to his knees and spit out the last of it, embarrassed.

"I'm sorry…" he said miserably.

He couldn't look at Greg now, but he did hear the "zip" and felt sure that at last he had pulled up his pants. Well, at least _that!_

Greg sighed, almost laughed, and a moment later Gordo felt him by his side, reaching down, offering him a hand.

"Nothing to be sorry about," Greg said. "It happens. Like I said, sometimes you gotta let it out, right?"

Gordo took the offered hand, and Greg pulled him to his feet. "Feel any better now?"

Gordo coughed. "Yeah, I think I do. A little better."

"Well, come on, dude," Greg said, lightly draping his arm around Gordo's shoulder. "I think that's enough excitement for one night, don't you? Can you walk?"

"Yeah… I think I can," Gordo said, feeling different now, feeling heavier, and more grounded. Less inebriated. And suddenly, incredibly sleepy.

He yawned.

Greg laughed again. "Come on, Sixteen. Time to get you back to your bunk, I think."


	12. Second Base

**_Hi, I have another chapter. And at this time, I would also like to reiterate that at some point in the near future, this story is going to have to move into the M section. Not yet, but soon. I just want to let you know so that if you are following along, and one day the entire story seems to have disappeared, you will want to check the M section, because that's where it will be._**

**_Okay. On with the show!_**

**SECOND BASE**

Sid Pryor had decided that the campers at Sunnybrooke Baseball Camp should be woken up AT 7 A.M. each morning to the melodious strains of Frank Sinatra singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" over the loudspeakers surrounding the fields. The cabins were a significant distance from the fields, but Sid had left instructions for his staff to play the song VERY LOUD, so as to be assured of awakening all campers.

That Thursday morning, Gordo slept right through it.

His bunkmates, chubby red-headed Charlie Patterson, and the solemn, silent Geller twins, had already dressed and been to breakfast in the mess hall when they came back to the cabin for their field equipment and found him still snoring off the night before. Charlie shook him till he woke.

"Hey, Gordon! Gordon! Time to get up, you're going to be late!"

Gordo swam up to consciousness into a pounding headache. He sat up in bed and caught his breath. Where was he? And why did he feel like this? Slowly, slowly…it all began to come back to him…

"Oh, crap…" he croaked.

"Hey, what's up with you?" Charlie asked. "Where were you last night, anyway?"

"I…I…"

He was only now beginning to remember how he had gotten back to his bunk…a vague recollection of Greg forcing him to walk up stairs…and then they were in the camp office…and Greg was giving him water in a paper cup and a couple of pills, saying, "Here, take these. It'll take the hair off the dog."

"Oh, crap…" Gordo repeated, and he realized that if he had _not_ taken those pills in the middle of the night, he would likely feel even worse this morning. If that was even possible.

How drunk had he been? And why were there giant chunks of time he could not remember now? What had happened? What had he said? What had he done?

"Yeah," Charlie volunteered, "you came in pretty late last night, Coach Greg came in with you, he kind of tucked you into bed. What were you doing with Coach Greg?"

What was he doing with Coach Greg? That's what he was beginning to wonder. What he said, in a dry voice, was, "We were just hanging out."

"You were?" Charlie exclaimed.

"With Coach Greg?" one of the Geller twins added.

Gordo looked up at his bunkmates. Charlie's mouth was hanging open. He was clearly impressed. One of the Geller twins, the one who had spoken, stared at him with wide eyes. The other, however, seemed to be sneering, and added "He's drunk."

"No, I'm not!" Gordo returned crossly.

"I mean, you're hung-over. You _were_ drunk."

"No, I wasn't," Gordo lied.

He glared back at the boy accusing him. If looks could kill! One of the Geller twins---Gordo could never remember which one, Robbie or Richie, they were so much alike---was always challenging him and giving him the evil eye. This was obviously that boy.

"You're acting like you're hung-over," the evil-eyed Geller continued. "Just like Uncle Bob when he stayed with us that time, remember?" he said to his brother.

As the twins looked at each other, silently communicating, and Charlie Patterson continued to stare in amazement, the hung-over Gordo admitted, "Well…yeah…I guess we did have a beer or two…"

"Wow…" Charlie marveled.

The Gellers both opened their mouths to speak at the same time, but before either could get out a single word, the strains of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" once again filled the air.

"We gotta go!" Charlie exclaimed, rushing to his locker for his field equipment. "We'll tell the coaches you're on your way. You missed breakfast, but there's a Snickers under my pillow you can have, if you wanna eat something before you come out."

Gordo didn't even have the chance to thank Charlie for his generous offer. Truth be told, though, he felt quite certain he would not be able to keep down any food in his current condition. As the three boys were running out the door with bats, bags, masks and gloves, Gordo was only beginning to stand up on shaky feet.

Alone in the cabin, he looked down at the tiny nightstand beside his bed. There, he saw a paper cup half full of water, and two familiar looking pills. Another memory crashed into the side of his brain, freshly stabbing him with pain. "Take these in the morning soon as you wake up," Greg was whispering as he pulled the blanket up to Gordo's shoulders. Then he pat him on the shoulder, saying "G'nite, Sixteen. You're all right."

Gordo took a deep breath and downed the pills. That was nice of Greg to give him the pills in the middle of the night, and then leave him another dose for the morning. Of course, it _wasn't _nice of Greg at all to get him rip-roaring drunk last night so that he woke up now with this incredibly awful hangover.

But…

_My first hangover…_ Gordo smiled.

Yes. I am becoming a man.

As he dressed, his thoughts were jumbled. Why had all that happened last night, anyway? How had it even gotten started? Something about….Miranda…oh yeah. _Not boyfriend material_. Now he remembered. He had been feeling pretty bad about that, but then somehow, Greg took it and turned it all around, so much so, that in the clear light of morning, he didn't even feel it was that much of an issue anymore. The only issue he faced right now was getting dressed and getting out to the field before he got in too much trouble.

Slipping into his practice uniform, he tried to break through the fog to concentrate on baseball. Every day at practice he had felt like he was getting better and better. The coaches were all saying so. Of course, Greg was saying so the most---

Greg. He had to think of him. And in a few moments, he would have to face him again. For some reason, that made him uneasy. Now, in the grips of a morning-after hangover rather than the night-time's drunken reverie, he experienced a strong sensation of wanting to hold back and be cautious around this overly-friendly coach. There was something about their developing relationship that was not quite right. He didn't know much when it came to friendships with other guys, but something in his gut told him this was not the way it was supposed to be.

However, at the same time, his ever-reliable sense of logic kicked in, warning him not to make any judgments based on what might have happened last night, because he was not necessarily in his right mind. One should not draw conclusions from what one _thinks _may have happened when one was clearly and completely DRUNK. Should one? No, this needed the light of day, and a good dose of clear-headed thinking

But as Gordo gathered up his things and let the screen door slam behind him, another thought came to mind. Just now, the look on Charlie's face! And Geller's face. (Well, the one Geller, not the other.) They were so impressed! They were maybe even a little bit…dare he even think it?…jealous? Except for Report Card Envy, no one had ever been jealous of Gordo before. He had to admit, it felt good. Sure, he'd been "Teacher's Pet," numerous times, due to his devotion to academics, but that was different, totally different, and it wasn't always a good thing. He didn't like the way people treated him for being "Teacher's Pet." But being…no, not _Coach's Pet_, more like _Coach's_ _Pal_…well, this could earn him a certain amount of respect and admiration. No matter what he might think of Greg, he felt he owed it to himself to milk his newly elevated reputation for all it was worth.

Of course, he did soon have to think about Greg, because he was approaching the ball field, and there he was. Greg coached batting practice, and Gordo saw him in his usual spot, behind home plate. He was demonstrating stance and swing for little Jason Oberman, but when he saw Gordo coming, he stopped to wave and grin and quip loudly, for everyone to hear, "Well! Mr. Gordon! Glad you could join us!"

Gordo did not respond, but slipped quietly into the dugout with the other boys who were waiting their turn at bat. From here, as he watched Greg, he was amazed to find not even the slightest hint that he might be suffering any ill effects from the night before. In fact, if anything, Greg seemed more chipper than usual. When it was Gordo's time up at bat, Greg coached him as he always did, with no acknowledgement whatsoever that they had been drinking buddies the night before. Gordo hit several fouls over the third base line, then Greg stepped in to show him a different position, a different angle for the swing, and at last he was able to get a few grounders into the outfield.

"Good work, Gordon," he said. "You're improving."

So was that how it was going to be? Like nothing had ever happened? Gordo was confused, he didn't know if he was supposed to say something, if he was supposed to play along…

But then it came time to pick the balls up from the field, and as was the custom, Greg motioned to Gordo to stay behind. They sat in the dugout, side by side, watching the others gathering up the balls for the next round of practice, and now that they were alone, Greg said, "Dude! You were so drunk last night! How ya feeling this morning?"

"I'm all right," Gordo said conservatively. He wanted to leave it at that, but felt it was only polite to add, "Thanks for the meds."

"Yeah, they really do the trick, don't they?"

Gordo realized that the dose he had taken this morning was probably just now beginning to kick in, since he was suddenly feeling so much better. "Yeah, they do," he agreed. "Thanks."

"Hey, that was fun, wasn't it?" Greg said. "We should do it again some time."

This surprised Gordo. He was still having trouble believing that someone this cool would want to hang out with him. But after his new, cautious thoughts about Greg from earlier this morning, on some level it didn't seem right. Yet on another level, he was immensely flattered.

"Yeah," he said. "We should."

"Yeah, we should," Greg echoed. "And you know what we should do? Next time, I mean? "

Greg did not elaborate further, so Gordo was forced to look at him, and when he did, he saw Greg smiling at him conspiratorially as he lifted his right hand to his mouth in what was clearly a pantomime of smoking a joint.

"Oh!" Gordo said. "Yeah. Yeah. That."

Gordo had a vague memory that at one point last night he had felt convinced that smoking pot with Greg would be the coolest thing ever. But now, in the light of day, his inhibitions fully in place, he wasn't nearly as sure.

"So…whatta you think?" Greg asked eagerly. "You wanna?"

Gordo felt a sudden rumble in his stomach. Perhaps he should have taken up the offer of Charlie Patterson's Snickers bar. Or maybe it was just that he was having a physical reaction to another sudden memory from the night before. Gordo recalled that Greg had called him a "virgin in every way" and it seemed now that maybe Greg's sudden excitement about them smoking pot together was little more than a perverse desire to rob him of his "virginity" in yet another way. Something felt so…wrong, and so "icky" about that.

But still he said, "Uh…yeah. Sure," because he didn't want to look like a wuss.

"Awesome, dude!" Greg said, apparently not picking up on any of his reluctance. "I'll see if I can arrange it. Hey, here comes Angelo, let me see what he wants."

Gordo was left sitting on the bench, not knowing what to think, his thoughts more jumbled than ever. Fortunately, Angelo was coming over to suggest to Greg that it was time to switch out their players. Consequently, Gordo spent the first part of the afternoon in the outfield. Here he had too much time to think about everything, and really sucked, because he wasn't really paying attention, and if a ball did in fact come to him, he didn't have enough strength in his throwing arm to get it back to the infield. Angelo saw this, and played around with the positioning, and after an hour or so, Gordo found himself at second base, where, amazingly….he did amazingly.

Yes, second base. That was the place for Gordo! Here he discovered that though he didn't have the "power arm" needed in the outfield, he had enough muscle for a short throw to first, third or home, and with an unerring sense of accuracy and a good sense of judgment, he was consistently throwing the ball exactly where it needs to go without hesitation. What he lacked in power he more than made up for in confidence. His practice team was therefore able to make great plays and great progress.

What a feeling! He had to keep his eye on the ball all the time, so there was no time to let his thoughts wander. Focused on the task at hand, succeeding with almost every move he made, Gordo felt that he finally understood what "sport" was all about. He found himself swelling with a sense of pride and excitement about being able to do something well that he never dreamed he would be able to do with even the slightest level of competence. And it was the unexpectedness of this success that made it that much sweeter.

They were out in the field all day, and at the end of it, as the sun was getting low in the sky, when Angelo called them all in, Gordo was surprised at how disappointed he felt that it was over. As they all ran in towards home plate, several of the other boys yelled words of support at Gordo, and a couple even pat him on the back as they passed.

"Hey, Gordon!" Angelo called him over. "Good stuff out there today."

Gordo huffed and smiled. "Thanks, Coach."

"Quick reflexes. That's important."

"Thanks!"

He was still beaming when Greg suddenly appeared, saying, "Gordon! Good job! I was watching you those last few plays, I'd say you've found your position, buddy."

Gordo nodded. "Yeah. I like second base."

"When you play high school ball, your coaches would be absolute morons not to put you on second."

Gordo nodded again, working out his shoulder, which felt a bit sore from all that throwing today. Greg had said "When," not "If," as if there was no doubt that playing ball was in his future. Gordo didn't know about that, but he liked the assumption.

"Well, listen," Angelo said to Gordo, "we've got another big day of practice tomorrow, so you rest that arm up tonight, all right?"

"Where you off to?" Greg asked Angelo.

"Hot date," Angelo said.

"Marissa?"

"Oh yeah!" Angelo agreed with a big grin.

"Have fun!" Greg encouraged, winking at the other coach before patting his arm and letting him go.

As Angelo ran off, Gordo and Greg were left alone just south of home plate. All around them, boys were gathering their equipment and heading towards the locker room, but no one was paying them any attention, so to Gordo's mind, they were quite alone.

He was hoping Greg might say something more about getting together. Even though earlier he had experienced an "ick factor" at the thought of losing his pot-smoking virginity with Greg, at this moment, high on his success of the afternoon, he was ready to take on yet another new experience.

But Greg did not mention the idea again. In fact, Greg did not mention much of anything significant. They walked towards the locker room together, talking about baseball, talking about second base, about the weather forecast for the evening, and then suddenly Greg was rambling on about Dads who expected way too much of their sons.

Gordo could sense that Greg had something on his mind, and he was trying to figure out a way to invite him to share further thoughts on the subject, but as they reached the locker room, Greg said, "Well, Sixteen. Looks like you got to go in and take a shower."

Gordo just looked at him, still hoping.

"SMELLS like you got to go in and take a shower!" Greg joked, giving Gordo a playful punch in the arm. "And I gotta go do this…this _thing._ So…I'll see ya."

"Okay," Gordo said, feeling perplexed and a little disappointed. "See ya."

He went into the locker room, wondering what all that had been about. Was Greg's dad pressuring him into doing something he didn't want to do? Well, he could relate to _that,_ couldn't he? He and Greg were different in so many ways, but maybe, in fact, there were some ways that they were really quite similar. Greg's dad would no doubt pressure him to do well in sports, which would essentially be "following in his father's footsteps." Gordo often felt his own father pressured him to do well in academics, and he knew that secretly his father hoped that someday his son would have a "Doctor" in front of his name, the same way he did.

But Gordo's dad pressured him to do well in other areas as well, areas in which he wouldn't naturally excel. He was here at this baseball camp, wasn't he? Maybe Greg's dad was pressuring him to do well in something he wasn't naturally good at. Maybe…academics? But no, hadn't Greg told him that he did well in school? At least well enough? Then what was it? What was Greg being forced to do this evening that was preventing him from doing what he really wanted to do: getting high with his good buddy David Gordon?

Gordo was in the shower, covered with soap, before he stopped and realized that thoughts of Greg had so consumed him from the moment they parted, that he had not even been aware of going to his locker, undressing, pulling a towel, getting in under the hot water. And now he found himself soaping his entire body, concentrating on scrubbing out the smell of sweat from the most offensive areas of his body, and all the while his thoughts had been on Greg.

He dropped the soap.

"Hey, Gordon! Don't drop the soap!" someone yelled from another stall, and there was a raucous bout of whooping and hollering.

Not till that moment did Gordo realize that he was not alone. He looked around and saw that other boys were in the shower room with him, also naked, also soapy, and joking around about dropping the soap.

"Very funny!" he called back. But inside he felt humiliated, as if naked and unaware of his surroundings, he might have also been leaving open a back door for someone to slip into his thoughts. And he didn't want anyone to know how much he was thinking of Greg. That would have been just…well, embarrassing. Especially that he was thinking about him while taking a shower.

He checked below. No, he was okay, no activity there. Maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought. He quickly rinsed off and left the shower. Wrapping himself in a towel, he went back to his locker, leaving the bar of soap on the wet tile floor where it had dropped.


	13. Slipping Morals

Well, I am trying really hard not to become discouraged by the lack of reviews. Where is everybody? Doesn't anybody read Lizzie McGuire Fanfiction anymore? I'll say it again, I accept anonymous reviews, if you're shy about leaving your name. I would just really like to know if anyone is enjoying this story. Anyway, here is a shorter chapter. I hope you like it.

SLIPPING MORALS

Gordo managed to dress without incurring any further incriminating thoughts, but as soon as he got outside and started walking back towards his cabin, the incriminating thoughts began churning once again. He couldn't help it. He felt disappointed that Greg had not mentioned anything further about getting together tonight. Despite all its craziness, last night had been fun…and what did he have to look forward to tonight? More of the usual: watching the Gellers play poker in the cabin, or sitting in the rec room, watching mindless sitcoms with a bunch of pre-adolescent boys who reserved their loudest laughs for bodily function jokes. He was re-reading _Conversations with Filmmakers: Steven Spielberg,_ but after the excitement of last night, reading a book simply did not interest him.

When he reached the cabin, he went to his bunk locker to put away his equipment and noticed a red light on his cell phone. Someone had tried to call him, so he flipped open the phone and… Miranda.

He sighed.

Miranda. Did he want to talk to her? It would be better than watching sitcoms or reading, but…but he was still mad at her. He didn't want to talk to her. He wasn't going to call her.

No, what he wanted to do was hang out with Greg. He wanted to get high with Greg. And at this point, he didn't even care if that was a violation of his virginity. He wanted to do something wild. He was tired of always being good. Good never got him anywhere, did it? It got him the reputation of NOT being boyfriend material, as Miranda had so pointedly reminded him less than 24 hours ago. And it got him the reputation of being, as Greg had put it, "a virgin in so many ways." No, he wanted to be bad, and the best way he could think of was to hang out and smoke pot with Greg.

But…Greg didn't want him. Not tonight. Well, he had that…"thing" he had to do. What thing? Gordo's mind raced, trying to imagine what it could be. And the more it raced, the crazier his ideas got. Maybe it was academic, and his dad was sending him to a tutor so he could do better on the SAT's? But that didn't make sense, because he had already gotten accepted into UCLA. Maybe it was a family thing, and he was being forced to have dinner with some old spinster aunts? That could be. Or maybe his dad thought his hair was too shaggy and was sending him to a barber for a crew cut. Maybe, in an attempt to make him a "well rounded young man" Sid Pryor was making his son take violin lessons! Ha! Gordo could just see Greg playing the violin…

And then a final idea: maybe there was no "thing" at all. Maybe Greg had simply made it up, as a gracious way of getting out of something he didn't really want to do. Maybe he had only been joshing when he said he wanted them to hang out again. _I mean, really,_ Gordo thought, _when you think if it logically, why in the world would someone like him want to hang out with someone like ME? _He couldn't wrap his mind around it.

Well, actually...there was one answer to that question that was flitting around the outside edges of possibility, but that was the thing he _most_ did not want to wrap his mind around. So he let that thought continue bouncing off his brain, refusing to let it in.

As he lay on his bed, thinking all this through as much as he would consciously allow himself to think it through, he was at least acutely aware that he was thinking way too much about all this. He also was beginning to realize that the disappointment he felt over not getting to hang out with Greg tonight was …well, it was not _normal._ It was too much like the disappointment he always felt when he got to Homeroom and realize that Lizzie was not there. He would wonder if she was sick, did she have a family emergency, what had happened, should he try to call her, and oh! how he wished she were here, he just wanted to see her---

Yeah. What he was thinking about Greg right now felt kind of like that. And once again, he experienced the sensation he called "the ick factor."

Before he could dwell on the ickiness for too long, Charlie Partterson walked into the cabin. Gordo sat up on the bed. "So, Patterson," he said, mainly to make conversation and get himself out of his own head. "What's up? What've you got goin' on tonight?"

"Nothing," Charlie said dejectedly. "You know that the Gellers play poker every night, right?"

"Yeah. I've seen them."

"Well, I'd love to get in on some of that action. I'm pretty good at poker, and I think if I could just get into the game I could rob them of their rolls and rolls of quarters, but right now, I've got nothing to bring to the table. My folks didn't leave me a whole lot of money, so what am I gonna do?"

Charlie sat down on the other bunk, sighing. Then, suddenly, "Hey, Gordon! You got any money?"

"No," Gordo said instantly. He did not, in fact, have much money either, but even if he did, he wasn't about to give it to Charlie Patterson. Yet the idea of some friendly betting intrigued him. He wouldn't mind getting in on that game himself. But how? He thought, and he thought, and as usually happened when he put his mighty brain to any puzzle or problem, he came up with an idea.

"Listen," he said finally. "I think I know a way I can get us both into the game."

Five minutes later, David Gordon and Charlie Patterson were walking towards the mess hall, their heads together, planning a heist. Neither had money, or the possibility of getting any, but Gordo remembered passing through the kitchen last week and seeing several giant bags of snack-sized candy bars in a cabinet that had accidentally been left open. Gordo and Charlie had just gotten the Gellers to agree that they could both enter the poker game if they had something of value to bring to the table, and candy bars, they said in unison, were "acceptable currency."

"There must be a hundred or two hundred little candy bars in that cabinet!" Gordo explained now to Charlie. "They've never given us candy bars before, so my best bet is that they're saving it for the last day, at the Big Game, when all the parents are going to be here to pick us up. That's more than a week away! We could 'borrow' those candy bars, use them as poker chips, and if you're half as good as you say you are---and I know I'm pretty good at it too---in a few nights we could win back all those candy bars AND several dozen quarters each, and both come out way ahead."

"Gordon! You're brilliant!" Charlie exclaimed.

"Of course, when it's all over, we have to return the candy bars, you realize that. We're not _stealing_ them, we're just _borrowing_ them. Got it?"

Gordo could be "bad," when he made the attempt, but he could never be really bad.

"Yeah, yeah, just borrowing," Charlie agreed hurriedly. "What kind of candy bars are they?"

"The usual, I guess. I think I saw, you know…Three Musketeers, Milky Way, Snickers…"

"Snickers! Oh man! I am so there!" Charlie agreed. "So what's the plan? How do we do this?"

They hung around the mess hall long after dinner was over, most of the cleanup was done, and there were only a couple of lunch ladies left in the kitchen. Before throwing out his paper plate, Gordo used it to draw Charlie a detailed map of the kitchen, in ketchup, with a bright X of mustard to indicate the cabinet that housed their prize.

Though Gordo had been the one to come up with this fabulous plan, and though he insisted they were not stealing, only borrowing, when it came right down to it, he knew this was stealing and would be seen as stealing, should the thief be caught. He did not want to be the one to get caught, so he volunteered to provide the distraction, and Charlie agreed to actually bag the candy.

At the appropriate time, Gordo "slipped" just outside the kitchen door and fell with a thud, screaming and whining that he thought he sprained his ankle. This, of course, brought both of the lunch ladies to his side---while Charlie made the mad dash into the kitchen and grabbed the candy, stuffing it into a gym bag. By the time Gordo was able to convince the lunch ladies that his ankle would be all right after all, and made a show a hobbling back to his cabin, Charlie had already divvied up the stash, and was sitting on the bed with his portion, tearing into his third Snickers bar.

"What are you doing?" Gordo insisted. "Those are poker chips! You're not supposed to eat them!"

"These," Charlie said through a mouth full of chocolate, "are Snickers. And Snickers are designed specifically to be eaten."

Fortunately the Gellers came in at that point, and impressed with the potential ante, pulled two more chairs to the table.

After that, Charlie didn't eat any more of his poker chips. The four boys sat around the table, playing poker with quarters and candy bars, Britney and Christina blasting from the Gellers' boombox. They told jokes, and not all of them were about bodily functions. Some of them were about sex, which surprised Gordo.

"Hey, how old are you guys, anyway?" he asked as he raked in his winnings.

"We're eleven," one of the Gellers said.

"Almost twelve," the other one added.

"In September," the first one continued.

"I'm twelve," Charlie volunteered. "But my birthday's next month. So I'm almost thirteen."

"Me too!" Gordo exclaimed.

"You're twelve?" Charlie asked with a puzzled look on his face. "I would have sworn you were older than that."

"I'm---well---"

Oops. Gordo had put his foot in it now. What he meant was that his birthday was next month. He didn't want to get Greg's dad in trouble for having older kids at the camp. But what the hell! Since he'd been here, he'd already gotten drunk, was hoping to smoke pot, and had participated in a heist. What harm was there in a small lie about his age?

"Yeah," he said then, "I'm twelve. But I'm like you, my birthday's next month."

"What day?" Charlie asked.

"The fifth," Gordo said. At least that much was true.

"Mine's the 16th. So I guess you _are_ older than me. See? I knew you were older than me. I knew you had to be the oldest one here."

"I guess I am," Gordo agreed. Then, to change the subject, suddenly, "Hey! Have you heard the one about the stripper who goes into the doctor's office?"

They continued telling jokes, and soon they were singing along with the songs on the radio. Gordo was making a killing in candy bars and quarters! The Gellers couldn't keep up with him, and he and Charlie were neck in neck. This was fun, just "hangin' out with the guys." He'd never really done it before. Well, he'd hung out with Lizzie and Miranda, watching movies and playing board games, but never poker, and never telling dirty jokes! This was what guys did, wasn't it? What REAL guys did.

He liked it.

And then his cell phone rang, and one of the Gellers said, "Hey! What's that?"

Gordo got up and went to his locker. Looking at his phone, he saw the familiar name.

"Aaah, it's nothing," he said, snapping the phone closed.

"Nothing?" Charlie questioned. "Who is it?"

"It's just Miranda," Gordo said, sitting down again.

There was a stunned moment of silence, then a collective "Oooohh!" rose up from around the table.

"Just Miranda?" Charlie teased. "Who's Miranda?"

"Yeah," one of the Gellers said. "Who's Miranda? Your girlfriend?"

The other Geller was staring at him again, silently, with the evil eye.

"Yeah, she's my girlfriend," Gordo said, staring back at both the Gellers, determined to find some difference between them, so he could figure out which one it was that periodically hated him.

"Gordo and Miranda, sitting in a tree!" Charlie began to sing.

And the good Geller joined him in "K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

Gordo felt himself reddening. "Cut it out, you guys!"

Why had he told them Miranda was his girlfriend? Was it only because after lying about his age, lying about a girlfriend was that much easier? And was lying so much easier, after thievery and drunkenness? What was happening to his morals since he'd gotten to this place?

"No, tell us all about her," Charlie insisted. "How old is she? Is she hot? What does she look like? And why don't you want to talk to her? Are you guys fighting?"

"Geez! You ask a lot of questions!" Gordo exclaimed.

"Are you fighting?" Charlie insisted.

"No!" Gordo exclaimed. "It's just…well, we had a little disagreement last night on the phone, and I'm just not really in the mood to talk to her right now, you know?"

"Yeah," good Geller said. "And besides that, Gordon is not---he's not, you know, the kind of guy who would be---you know---"

"No, we don't know," the other Geller said, speaking suddenly and heavily. "What are you talking about?"

"I know what he's talking about!" Charlie volunteered. "Gordon is not…you know…" And here he made a loud _"p-shing!"_ noise as he pantomimed the snapping of a whip.

They all laughed, even Gordo.

"Yeah, that's right," Gordo said, nodding. "I'm not…._p-shing_!"

When they calmed down, he added, "I'll call her later. Maybe tomorrow." Because though he was delighted that his new friends would believe that he was the kind of guy who _would_ have a girlfriend, and also believed that he would _not_ be pussy-whipped, he didn't want them to think he was absolutely heartless when it came to women.

Also, after everything that had happened today, he was starting to soften towards Miranda. It might not be so bad to talk with her again, after all. Yeah. He would call her tomorrow.

They played poker until late into the night. When Gordo finally put his head to the pillow, it was already the next day. He was richer by several dollars, and several dozen candy bars. And probably best of all, he had finally found his place on the baseball field. Sure, he'd told a few lies, laughed at a whole lot of dirty jokes, and participated in a theft, but all in all, it had been a good day.


	14. Whatcha Got Planned?

**Well, I began this story last summer, and it would be great if I could finish it THIS summer, but to tell you the truth, I'm not sure that's going to happen. There's still a LOT more to tell. But while it's still summer, I'm going to try to work on it some more. Here's another chapter. Tell me what you think is going on. I'm curious to hear, because my boyfriend has some very strong ideas about how I'm portraying these characters, and I'm just wondering if everybody is seeing it the same way. Where do you think this might be going?**

**Not "M" yet, but remember, someday soon I'm going to have to move this thing. But anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. bgm**

WHATCHA GOT PLANNED?

It was a pleasure to wake up Friday morning without a hangover. Gordo also enjoyed heading out the field, remembering that yesterday he had experienced some degree of success on second base. He decided he liked fielding a lot better than batting. Of course being out in the field meant he wasn't in Greg's group anymore. But that was okay.

In fact, that was more than okay.

He had been starting to feel a little weird about his feelings towards Greg. He couldn't exactly place it, he wouldn't dare put a name to it, but it bothered him. At the very least, he had to admit it "wasn't normal." Yet now, after all the fun he'd had last night with "the guys" ---- good, clean guy fun, just hanging out---he wasn't feeling quite as obsessed with Greg. Maybe the less he saw Greg, the better. That's what he was thinking.

Until he saw him, of course.

Then it all came back, the flood of memories, the taste of the beer, the roar of the train, the pressure of Greg's body on top of his. See! This was exactly the kind of thing he didn't need to be thinking about. He tried to look away, but Greg glanced up and saw him, grinned widely and waved. He was wearing a baseball cap, and all his blonde hair was curling up around the brim in exactly the way that Gordo was quite sure would have had both Lizzie and Miranda swooning and squealing.

Only, he felt quite sure that was not the kind of observation he should be making at this moment.

He waved back, vaguely, trying again to look away, but this time Greg called, "Hey, Gordon! Catch!" and threw him the ball.

Gordo surprised himself by reaching up, almost instinctively, and catching the ball in the dead center of his glove. He felt the burn. That ball had been delivered with precision, but also with power.

And now, of course, he had to throw it back. He took a deep breath, wound up his arm, and tried to remember everything Angelo had taught him the day before. Amazingly, it seemed to work. The ball rocketed across the field, straight into Greg's waiting glove. Gordo heard the distinct "thud" of leather against leather.

Greg twirled the ball in the air, nodding at Gordo approvingly. "Nice…" he commented. "Keep up the good work, Gordon."

Now, suddenly, Gordo felt himself glowing. No, that wasn't right. Guys didn't _glow_. But there was no doubt he was feeling a warm sensation of satisfaction. That was all it was: a good start to what should prove to be another successful day out on the field.

And it was. Practice went well, and Gordo continued to excel, earning praise from Angelo, and admiration from many of the younger boys. At lunch, he sat with Charlie and the Gellers, where the conversation was all about poker, and whether or not they ought to raise the stakes for tonight's game. There seemed to be an assumption that the four would pick right up where they'd left off. Gordo liked being considered part of the group, but at the same time, as he glanced across the room and saw Greg, hanging out at the coach's table with Angelo, Barry and Joe, he knew that if he got invited on another drinking binge, he was likely to say yes.

More than likely. Despite himself.

The rest of that afternoon passed quickly, interrupted by a brief summer thunderstorm that had all the boys huddled in the dugout for a half hour. Some of the younger kids started going stir-crazy in the cramped quarters, so it was with great relief that Angelo released them back on to the field when the first rays of sunlight once again broke through the clouds. But the afternoon was lost after that. The clay had dissolved into mud, the grass was slippery, and nobody seemed able to concentrate. In only a little while, Greg waved over the other three coaches, and the decision was quickly made to knock off early.

Muddy, dirty boys ran about in the field, whooping and hollering as they gathered stray balls. Gordo also stayed behind to help put away the equipment. As Greg's "Assistant," he had not been allowed to participate in menial labor, but now Gordo was in Angelo's group, and received no privileges. He helped out, just like everyone else, and he enjoyed it.

He worked diligently at loading the ballpitch machine and the fields were all but empty when he looked up and saw Greg walking towards him. After noticing him, Gordo quickly looked away, and kept at his work.

"Hey, Sixteen," Greg said as he got closer. "Great work out there in the field."

"Thanks," Gordo said casually, still loading the balls.

"I think you've found your niche…your place, your…._thing_…know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Gordo said simply.

"And your arm is getting good, much stronger than when you first started."

Gordo shrugged. He didn't know how much more of this praise he could take. It was making him uncomfortable.

Fortunately, Greg seemed to sense that Gordo had reached the saturation point and changed the subject. "So," he said, gathering up the bats. "Friday night, dude. Whatcha got planned?"

Gordo wasn't exactly sure, but he felt that his heart may have skipped a beat. He tried to ignore the sensation, then answered, casually, "Not sure. Might play some poker."

Greg looked at him quizzically, with half a smile. "Poker?"

"Yeah," Gordo answered. "Me and some of the guys. Last night we played poker."

Greg's half-smile evolved into a full-fledged smirk as he quipped, "Strip poker?"

"What?!" Gordo exclaimed, flabbergasted. He hadn't seen that one coming…

"You know…" Greg said, still smiling. "Striiiiip…poker…"

He seemed to enjoy saying it, seemed to think it was quite a joke. But Gordo was not amused.

"No," Gordo answered, the annoyance heavy in his voice. Then, suddenly, "Shit, Greg! You know, sometimes you say things that…well, things I don't think it's appropriate for a camp counselor to be saying to his campers."

"Oh, keep your shorts on," Greg answered instantly, easily. "I don't mean nothin' by it, you know that. It's just that I feel comfortable jokin' around with you, Davey, cos you're older than the other kids, and you're smarter and more mature."

Gordo made a sour face at him, so Greg quickly added, "And anyway, baseball is over now. So I'm not your counselor at the moment, I'm just your buddy."

The buddy remark got Gordo wondering once again if Greg might be working up towards asking him to hang out. But before Gordo had a chance to wonder exactly how he would respond to such an invite, Greg continued with, "So what were the stakes then? At your poker game?"

"Coins and candy bars," Gordo answered, then shrugged, " I did pretty good last night. I might do that again tonight, but its no big deal, you know? And anyway…so…well…hey! What are you doing tonight?" He was trying to sound casual, but he was feeling some butterflies, and knowing he shouldn't, which only served to make more butterflies.

But Greg didn't seem to notice anything strange about Gordo, because suddenly all his thoughts were on the evening's plans. "Wo ho ho!" he exclaimed. "Kelly! Dude! I'm doing Kelly tonight. I mean, if all goes according to plan, and with Kelly it usually does, cos she loves it as much as I do, so yeah…tonight…I feel quite certain…I'll be doin' some luscious…delectably _delicious_…Kelly."

As they talked, they were also putting the equipment back into the small storage closet under the scorekeeper's box. Greg was locking the door as he made his proclamation of the wonders of Kelly .

Gordo stood staring dumbly at Greg. "Oh," was all he could say.

"Well," Greg qualified, pocketing the key, "first I gotta put in an appearance at her sister's house, cos there's this big…you know, family thing going on, and after all, I _am_ the boyfriend. But afterwards…afterwards…"

Greg's voice faded as he got lost in a reverie of the delicious Kelly. Gordo continued staring at him dumbly, and he found himself wondering _Afterwards…what?_ So for a moment, the two of them were standing by the locked door of the equipment room, and Greg was thinking about having sex with Kelly, and Gordo was also thinking about Greg having sex with Kelly, until somehow Gordo suddenly realized how very wrong and how very weird it was to be thinking about Greg having sex with Kelly, or anyone for that matter, and he snapped out of it and said, "Well. Yeah. Good luck with that. I mean…enjoy it, dude. Have a good time. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah…" Greg said, slowly drifting up out of his way too pleasant thoughts.

Gordo began walking away, his shoulders hunched, his thoughts jumbled.

"Hey!" Greg called.

Gordo turned, instantly.

"Hey," Greg repeated, more quietly. "Good luck at poker tonight. I mean it, dude. Enjoy."

Gordo nodded, then turned, and continued walking away. He was headed towards the locker room, knowing how badly he needed a shower, but not really wanting to go in there with everybody else still mulling about. With his thoughts so strange, his emotions so raw and agitated, the last thing he wanted to do at the moment was get naked in front of a bunch of strangers.

Why did he feel so certain that, right now, everyone would be able to see right through him, and they would all be laughing at him? This…what he was feeling…on some level, he knew it was disappointment, because now that the possibility had been completely eliminated, he realized with certainty how very much he had been hoping that he might be hanging out with Greg tonight. Yet at the same time, he knew how pathetic that hope was. He chastised himself for ever allowing himself to think, even for a moment, that a cool guy like Greg would be interested in spending a _Friday_ night with a dweeb like him.

But what was even worse, this other feeling he was having, making him kind of sick in the pit of his stomach… he'd felt this before. The time he'd felt it the strongest…he remembered it well…that day he saw Lizzie kissing the paperboy. Ugh! The thought of Lizzie with that….creep of a paperboy! That still hurt. And now! Now…the thought of Greg, getting it on with some faceless, non-descript but totally hot chick named Kelly. No! No! He had to get that thought, that image, out of his mind. And most of all, he had to keep himself from thinking the dreaded "J" word.

But there it was. Whispering to him from the back of his mind. _Jealous…_

Gordo felt he was about to go insane. This wasn't right. Something was happening to him, something weird, something bad. He felt panicked. He walked towards the locker room, then he walked all the way around the building and back out towards the fields. He had no idea where he was going, what he was doing. He was just trying to sort out his thoughts and keep from going insane.

He looked all around, but Greg was nowhere to be seen. Of course not. Greg had probably bolted from this scene as fast as he could. And why not? He probably couldn't wait to get into the arms of the luscious Kelly. And he probably couldn't wait to get away from the pathetic little dweeb who kept hanging around him like a lovesick puppy dog…

_Okay_, Gordo thought. _That's it. This is the end. Right now. This has got to stop…right now!_

He gave himself a good talking-to, walking back and forth between the fields and the locker room. As he paced, some of the other kids started coming out, fresh from their showers, and some glanced at him, some actually said "Hey!" but nobody looked at him funny.

He began to breath easier. It was okay then. He must be okay. He must not appear to be a freak. And if he didn't appear to be a freak, then maybe he wasn't actually a freak. In a little while he had himself convinced that nothing was wrong, and in fact nothing _had been_ wrong, that he was just having…well, an attack of low blood sugar or something. Yeah, that was it! Thatr wasn't "butterflies," that was "low blood sugar." He needed sugar. He needed to get his butt into the shower, get into some clean clothes and get back to the cabin so he could pick up winning some more of those delicious sugary candy bars, so good for his overall well-being.

Yes, that's what he wanted to do. Friday night poker with the guys. What else could he have been thinking? Getting drunk was stupid. Hanging out with Greg was stupid. Smoking pot? Stupid! Why had he ever thought he wanted to do that? Greg was just some big stupid egomaniac who was secretly laughing at him for being the oldest kid in the camp, but by no means the best at baseball. He didn't know what Greg's deal was. But you know what? He didn't care. Let Greg go hang out with his slutty girlfriend. He, Gordo, was his own man, unencumbered, free! And he was going to make a killing at poker tonight.

But first a shower. He felt able to face the locker room now, and began to head over there, but before he could get very far, while he was passing the log cabin office, he heard the screen door squeak open, and once again his heart skipped a beat as he turned his head, looking up, wondering who it might be, wondering if it might be…

But it wasn't Greg. It was Greg's dad, the proprietor of this establishment. And he was waving a cordless phone in Gordo's direction, yelling, "Gordon! Hey! I thought that was you, walking back and forth. Why haven't you showered yet? Well, never mind. I've got a call for you —"

"You do?" Gordo said expectantly. "Who?"

"Who do you think?" Sid Pryor asked, practically rolling his eyes. But before Gordo could answer who he actually thought it might be, or who he _hoped_ it might be, all his hopes were dashed when Sid Pryor answered his own question with, "It's your dad."

"Dad?" Gordo said, as if it was the acronym for a dreadful contagious disease.

"Yeah! Dad! Pop! The old man. Oh!" Sid realized suddenly and added, "It's nothing bad. He's just calling to say hey. I guess you don't pick up on your cell phone much…"

Gordo sighed. Great. Just what he needed now. A conversation with dear old dad. He took a deep breath and headed up the short staircase of rickety wooded steps, taking the phone from Pryor's sweaty hand. "Thanks," he said with a big, disingenuous smile.


	15. More Phone Calls

**_Many thanks to MathLeft for discussing this story with me, and reviving my interest in continuing it. It's amazing what a little feedback can do for a writer!_**

Gordo took a deep breath before putting the phone to his ear.

"Dad!" he exclaimed cheerily, almost flippantly. "What's up?"

"Hey! How are you, David? I just wanted to say hello, but I can't seem to get you on your cell phone…"

Gordo watched Sid Pryor walk down the steps and head towards the Mess Hall. At least he had the decency to make himself scarce and create a little privacy for this father/son conversation.

"Yeah, well," Gordo answered, "they don't let us bring cell phones to practice, there's really nowhere to put them, so I leave mine in the cabin. But I'm not in the cabin. I'm just getting in after being out on the field most of the day."

"Oh, really?" Howard Gordon said, adding expectantly, "So… how's it going?"

Gordo hesitated, then admitted, "Well…It's okay, I guess…"

"Okay? Not terrible?" Howard asked hopefully.

"Yeah, well, you know…" As much as Gordo had _not_ been looking forward to this call, hearing his Dad's familiar voice now made him feel…homesick…nostalgic…and he suddenly decided it wasn't fair to hold any of this against him.

"I guess…" Gordo admitted. "I guess I'm…well, I think I'm better at this than I thought I would be."

He could almost hear his father smiling through the phone as he heard the words, "You always were good at baseball, David. Remember---"

"Yeah, that's just it. I guess I do remember something about how to do this," Gordo said, surprised at how excited he was to be talking baseball with his dad. "It's kind of coming back to me. And I'm getting better at it. And I've kind of…well, I've been playing second base, and everybody says I'm doing really good out there with my fielding."

"Well, I'm happy to hear that!" Howard Gordo replied, his delight evident in the tone of his voice. "I knew you had it in you, David. And most of all, I'm just glad you're having fun, and experiencing some level of success. In fact, Sid has just been telling me that his son, Greg---you know Greg, don't you? We met him that first day---"

"Yeah. I know Greg," Gordo replied quietly.

"Well, I guess Greg's been raving to his dad about what a good ball player you are, and such a smart sharp kid."

"That's nice," Gordo uneasily, determined not to let himself be affected.

"And Sid's impressed that Greg would think that highly of you," Howard went on. "In fact, Sid was just telling me that they're thinking of inviting you up to the house one night for dinner."

"Dinner?"

"A bar-b-que," Howard confirmed. "I hear Sid's a fire demon at the grill and can conjure up one delicious rack of ribs."

Gordo groaned.

"David! What's wrong?"

Gordo sighed. He had just made the heartfelt decision not to have anything else to do with Greg. Going over his house for a bar-b-que didn't fit in well with that commitment. Of course, he couldn't tell any of this to his dad, so instead, he lied, "Well…you know…it's like this, Dad…cos…cos, as I told you, I _am _so good out in the field, I kind of get special treatment from some of the coaches here, and I think some of the other kids are maybe a little jealous of me already, so I wouldn't want to do anything to…you know…fuel that jealousy, I wouldn't want to make it any worse than it is, I wouldn't want them to think that I'm, like, a 'teacher's pet,' or anything like that, know what I mean?"

"I know exactly what you mean," Howard said. "But listen, David, you've got to face the facts. Wherever you go, whatever you do, for the rest of your life, you're always going to be better than most other people, so there are always going to be people who are jealous of you. You need to learn now how to deal with that now. You can't let that stop you from living your life, and from being all that you can be."

Gordo hung on to the phone, speechless. He didn't often have a chance to talk on the phone with his father, but hearing his voice now, after not hearing it at all for so many days, gave him a new perspective, and a new appreciation of his father's attitude. For maybe the first time in his life, Gordo felt convinced that dear old dad was not just spouting out what the psychology books suggested a father should say to a son in order to increase his self-esteem. There was something not only proud, but also very real, about this advice. Gordo was shocked by the realization that his dad was truly speaking from his heart.

"Look, David," the elder Gordon went on. "I didn't send you off to baseball camp _just_ to learn about baseball. There are life lessons to be learned here as well. Baseball is only a metaphor for life, son. I hope, wherever you go, whatever you do, you'll always strive to learn these other lessons as well. Lessons about life. Revelations about yourself."

Gordo snorted silently. _Yeah. That's right_. But Dad didn't really want to know some of the "lessons" he'd been participating in, or what kind of "revelations" he'd been having about himself since he got to this baseball camp.

"Well…okay…" Gordo agreed, figuring this was the best way to steer the conversation away from potential danger and discomfort.

"Okay, what?" Howard asked.

"Okay, I guess…I guess if I get invited…I'll go…"

"Now that's the spirit!" Howard returned, pleased. "You'll have a great time, David, I'm sure. I wish I could be there with you, to have some of those ribs…"

They spoke for a while longer after that, with Gordo asking about his Mom, followed by a short discussion on the weather, and a word or two about the upcoming school year. All in all, talking with his dad was not the horrible experience Gordo had at first thought it would be. In fact, as he clicked off the phone, it seemed to him that was the first time in a long time that he and his dad had had a decent conversation that didn't dissolve into sarcasm and yelling. It actually felt good.

But as he left the office cabin and headed over to the locker room for the much-needed shower, Gordo fervently hoped he did not get invited over to the Pryors' house for dinner. He tried to think of ways to get out of it, if asked. A stomachache or headache was always convenient. Or he could lie and say he was a strict vegetarian; but then his dad might find out, and there would be too much explaining to do.

Of course the best solution to this problem would be to not get invited at all. He supposed he could do everything within his power he could to avoid Greg altogether from this point on. Well, that might work…but it wasn't likely. He had a feeling, with both of the Pryors, if they got an idea in their head that they wanted something, they didn't let anything stop them from getting it.

No, it would probably be best if he actually had other plans, plans that prevented him from accepting a dinner invitation. Well, there was always the poker game. In fact, tonight! There was a poker game tonight! He showered as quickly as he could, changed into fresh clothes and walked briskly back towards his cabin. As he walked, he wondered how far he could go in using this poker game as an excuse for not accepting a dinner invitation. It might be a flimsy excuse, but pathetically, it was the best one he had.

When Gordo first got back to his cabin, nobody else was there. He took his phone from his locker and saw that in addition to several calls from his dad, Miranda had also tried to call him a few times. Suddenly, he decided it was stupid to be annoyed at her for her comments on the phone the other day, and now, quite desperately in fact, he wanted to talk to her. If for no other reason than because she was a GIRL. He had been surrounded by guys for far too long now, and it was starting to mess with his mind.

_Yes! That was it, all this stuff with Greg! It was like in prison, when guys start going after other guys, simply because there are no women around. In any normal situation they would never even look at another guy, but under the circumstances…_

This thought made Gordo feel a little better. He also felt better because he had made the decision to call Miranda. But before he could lift the cell phone to his ear, the door burst open and Charlie and the Gellars came in, followed by a couple of other campers from Cabin Six.

"Time to party!" Charlie announced, waving a bag of potato chips that he had no doubt swiped from the mess hall with an admirable amount of trickery and thievery. "Gordon! Mikey and Jason are coming into the game, and they bring to the table an awesome collection of baseball cards, some of which may actually be worth something on Ebay. Are you in?"

Gordo was in. Miranda would have to wait. But she did not wait too long. The boys were all set up around the table, the cards dealt, the music blasting, and the sun had not yet even set, when Gordo's cell phone once again began to sing.

The good Gellar began to chant, "Oh ho ho! Who could that be? Could that be Gordon's special _girlfriend?_"

Gordo looked at the phone. "Yep. It is," he announced.

"Woo hoo hoo!"

Gordo sighed. "I better talk to her this time," he said, feigning a resigned attitude. "If I don't start paying her some attention, she'll think I'm mad at her, and then when I get back home I won't get any for a long, long time…"

Gordo heard himself lying and wondered where this was coming from. Was he just playing the part, or was he trying to prove something to himself?

There was no time to ponder the question, as he flipped open the phone, got up from his chair and walked towards the door, saying loudly, "Miranda! Sweetie! What's up?"

He was out the screen door, pacing in front of the cabin before Miranda recovered from the "Sweetie" enough to say, "Gordo, what's going on? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine! I'm fine! What's up with you?"

"Well, I've been trying to reach you," Miranda said, "and you're not exactly easy to get in touch with. I've been worried about you…"

"Well, no need to worry, dear. It's just that it's busy here, I've been pretty busy, you know…" Gordo said, importantly.

"What are you doing right now?"

"Playing poker…with the guys," he said, hoping to impress Miranda with the fact that he had made some new friends.

Miranda was surprised, but her surprise expressed itself in a short, "Really? You don't say! So what is it? Strip poker?"

"What?!" Gordo cried, his bubble of self-importance suddenly burst. "NO!" he exclaimed. Then, "Fuck, Miranda! _Fuck!_ Why would you even say something like that?"

"Me?" Miranda shot back. "Did you just hear yourself just now? You used the F- word! Not once, but twice! Why would you say something like that? What are they teaching you in that camp , anyway?"

"Nothing that would concern you," Gordo said dejectedly. "Just a bunch of sports stuff…"

"Like how to swear?"

"Okay, cut it out. I apologize for that. But really…what were you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking _anything_!" Miranda returned. "I was just making a joke. Geez! Sensitive much, Gordo?"

"Well, I guess I am," he said, trying to cover his tracks. "I guess I'm just…you know…a little homesick or something…"

"Oooh…"Miranda said, more quietly, and sounding much more sympathetic. "How much longer do you have to be there?"

"Another week. I'll be home Saturday night. Not this Saturday. Next Saturday. "

"You gonna make it?" Miranda asked.

"I hope so," Gordo said, and he meant it sincerely, though he was not referring to homesickness. "Hey!" he said suddenly, to keep himself from sinking back into those thoughts he really didn't want to be thinking. "It's good to hear from you. I mean that, Miranda. So tell me…what are you up to on this fine Friday night?"

"Nothing," Miranda said heavily. "Yes, it's Friday night, but Lizzie is grounded, and you're away, and I'm so…freaking…BORED!" She made a sound that was something like a stifled scream, then said, "You know what, Gordo? I think we really need a much wider circle of friends, don't you think?"

Gordo agreed. "Sure. But we'll be going to high school now, in a few weeks, so I'm sure we'll meet new people, I'm sure we'll make more friends….and …you know…"

He was reluctant to continue this last thought, but then, at the last minute, he spit it out. "Look. We're growing up. It's inevitable. I'm pretty sure that soon we'll all be going out with different people. Boyfriends and girlfriends, I mean."

He wondered if Miranda would snort again at the idea of him having a girlfriend, but she didn't, and he felt encouraged to go on. "You know, I get it, Miranda, what you were saying to me last time. I know you don't think Lizzie would ever date me, but I'm sure there might be some girl, somewhere, in high school who might actually consider---"

"Yes," Miranda said, certainly. "I'm sure there is. I'm sure you'll find someone, some girl."

"You are?" Gordo asked in amazement. "You're sure?"

"Yes, of course! Just because Lizzie doesn't see you that way doesn't mean every girl in the whole world is going to have the same attitude. Despite what you might think, Lizzie is not the center of the universe. And I'm sure the universe is full of girls who can make their own decisions about what kind of guys they might like, and who they might like to go out with."

"Then…who?" Gordo asked. "You got any ideas which girls might be interested in me as…as boyfriend material?"

There. He'd said it. He'd used the dreaded phrase that had caused so much trouble on their last phone conversation.

And the phrase was not lost on Miranda. She remembered it well and suddenly gasped, "Oh my God, Gordo! About that…about everything I said last time...I'm _so_ sorry. So, so sorry. I know I must have hurt your feelings, but that wasn't my intention at all. I think we just had some miscommunication, or something like that. You understand, don't you, that just because Lizzie doesn't want to date you, that doesn't mean that other girls out there might not want to---"

"Who?" Gordo asked.

"Who?"

"Yeah, who? What other girls? Do you know anyone in particular that you think might…be interested…?"

Gordo heard himself, and knew this was not typical of who he had always been. He had always felt perfectly willing to wait for "nature to take its course," as his parents were always putting it. He always knew the day would come when he would feel inexplicably drawn to a girl. Well, in fact, that day had come, with Lizzie. But alas, it was not to be. And now, after all the crazy stuff that had been going through his head ever since he met Greg, he felt a strong urge (if he couldn't have Lizzie) to at least be attached to _some_ girl, any girl. It almost felt imperative that he start high school walking down the hall with a real live girlfriend on his arm.

"Hey!" he said suddenly, in answer to his own question. "How about Parker McKenzie? Do you think she still likes me?"

Gordo and Miranda talked about Parker, and some of the other girls they had known from middle school, picking out several potentials. Most of them were girls Gordo really had no interest in whatsoever, but as long as they weren't repulsive, he was willing to consider asking them out.

"You know," Miranda remarked, "you seem pretty anxious to have a girlfriend all of the sudden. Why this sudden…frenzy?"

"It's not a frenzy!" Gordo objected. "I'm just thinking about my high school career. I want to start it out right. I don't want to be the …dork, the dweeb, who can't find a girlfriend. Hey! Miranda! If worse came to worse, would you consider being my girlfriend?"

"Oh, Gordo, that's so _romantic_ of you!" Miranda intoned with heavy sarcasm. Then, "What do you take me for? I am _not_ so desperate for a boyfriend that I would pretend to be going out with someone!"

"What makes you think I'm talking about pretending?"

"Ewww!" Miranda exclaimed. "Are you crazy? You want us to actually go out, to kiss and make out and everything? Why? What's gotten into you, Gordo?"

"Nothing," he said airily. "It's just that…well…who knows? Maybe something would happen, if we ever tried it."

"News flash," Miranda stated. "I have no desire to go out with you, Gordo. I mean, I love you as a friend and all, but as a boyfriend, that's just not happening."

They were in danger of getting back into that sensitive territory that had caused the rift on their last phone call, so Gordo held his tongue. And wisely so, for in a moment, Miranda was saying, gently, "Besides. I know you like Lizzie. That's where your heart is. No girl ever wants to go out with a guy who's drooling for another girl. That's just not a good situation, know what I mean?"

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Gordo said desperately. He leaned against the wall and looked out at the setting sun, feeling a sinking feeling deep inside him. "What am I supposed to do?" he repeated. "Lizzie's the only girl I've ever wanted, and she won't have me…"

"Someone else will come along," Miranda said gently, philosophically. "Someone else who will make you forget all about Lizzie. That day will come. You'll be all right, Gordo. I know it. That day will come."

Gordo sighed. Someone who could make him forget about Lizzie? Anxiously, he wondered if that day had already come. He didn't want to think about it.

He didn't want to think about it, but later that night, after the poker game, when he was lying in bed and everything was quiet, he had to admit that whenever he found himself thinking about Greg, he wasn't thinking about Lizzie. He couldn't think about both of them at the same time.

And despite all the resolutions and commitments he was making within himself to change his ways and get his life back on track, when he was lying still in the night, he couldn't stop thinking about Greg.


End file.
